tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-45416296238089240452023-11-15T22:30:00.418-08:00WallaWallaMamaMamamorganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260425339351532228noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541629623808924045.post-37471266200559323072015-12-31T11:01:00.001-08:002016-01-05T15:45:17.143-08:00Reflecting on 2015 and Depression<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: Helvetica; line-height: normal;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> 2014 was a really exciting year for us - we had a brand new baby, I was in school, I left my career after 7 years, we moved to Walla Walla, we bought our first house. It was a year of change for the better but still change that left me reeling. This time last year I was depressed in a way that scared me. More than just a sad or empty feeling, anxiety was layered under and within and on top of the depression in ways that left me physically immobile for hours at a time, trapped inside my own head which was a highly unpleasant place to be. Depression told me lies like I’m inherently bad, incompetent and worthless, nothing matters, there’s no hope. Depression made my body heavy with hurt and fatigue, and my thoughts foggy. Anxiety gave me a constant feeling of dread and a nagging sense of guilt, but when I tried to sort out what I could possibly be afraid of or what I should feel guilty about I couldn’t navigate the fog to find a clear thought. My kids would ask me to play and I couldn’t stop weeping. They’d naturally become upset then I’d snap at them for it. Then I’d hate myself some more and wonder why I was so broken, why I couldn't appreciate the wonderful life going by in front of me. It’s not just society and the people who love us asking “why can’t you just snap out of it.” That accusatory useless question rang strongest inside my own head, in my own voice, playing into the vicious cycle of loathing myself for weakly succumbing to this intangible thing, the intangible thing which thrives and grows off of that self loathing.</span></div>
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My depression, anxiety, our culture of busy-ness, and just life, even when I was functioning better, stopped me from being present in the moment. I was in a hurry to finish a task, or in a rush to get out the door, and it made me say “maybe later” when I was asked to play, or “in a minute” when my kids wanted to show me something. It made me snap and lash out and resent and get lost in frustration when I could have been patient and connecting and teaching and loving. Don’t get me wrong, there was a lot of good stuff with my kids even at my worst, and now (at my much better) there are still a lot of hard moments, but seeing my anxiety about useless things fill so much space that could have been occupied by good brought me a lot of shame and I knew I could do better. Standing on the precipice of 2015 the one and only thing I wanted was to be present for my kids. That resolution led me to yoga, and it also led me to working with my primary care physician to find a medication that would help me out of the dark fog.</div>
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Everything everyone says about medicating depression stopped me from getting help sooner.<i> They throw a pill at everything nowadays. Don’t numb your existence with a pill. A pill isn’t the answer, you need to change your behavior or the way you’re thinking. You have no reason to feel this way. </i><b><i>Be strong</i></b>. I had taken anti-depressants before and remember not being miserable anymore, but only because my range of emotion was narrowed to a sliver of apathy, which was better but not good. Another time I was on an anti-depressant that made me sleep 14 hours a night and wake up tired. I didn’t have much faith in anti-depressants, and I struggled with a sort of moral dilemma against medicating "feelings." Now with my 20/20 hindsight I can see my doubt and hesitation never served me. </div>
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After a couple of weeks on Lexapro the fog cleared. If I felt nagged by anxiety now I could think logically about what was causing it, and complete the task, or have the conversation, or fix the problem, or often realize it was unfounded to begin with. Instead of waking up immediately overwhelmed by a dark nameless cloud I woke up and lived. I still felt sad sometimes, I still felt nervous sometimes, but I also felt happiness and confidence and security in a way I’d forgotten existed. It was truly life changing. I made friends, developed a routine, cleaned my house, read books, cooked, exercised, played with my kids, took deep breaths when I got frustrated. It wasn’t a perfect year, we had ups and downs and got sick a lot and I got dry socket and notably was blind for almost an entire week after being stabbed in the eyeball by a toddler fingernail. But it was the best year yet because I wasn’t a prisoner of my mind. </div>
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I’m so full of gratitude for the way my world became saturated with vibrant life and color and vivid experience in 2015. And so encouraged that I resolved to do something last year and actually did it! It’s not easy to talk about depression, that darkness feels intensely personal and I want to keep it shut away behind closed doors. But when I reflect about how I made my way to the other side of those doors I know I would have wanted to read that there is a way out. It may be a different way for you than it was for me but I promise you the hopelessness is a lie. Whatever you’re leaving behind you at midnight, may hope be ahead of you.</div>
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morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260425339351532228noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541629623808924045.post-2658122490425910212015-11-25T08:07:00.001-08:002015-11-25T08:07:12.081-08:00Toddler Gift Giving Guide<div style="color: #555555; font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 16px; margin-bottom: 20px;">
I always swore I'd never have a kid with a Christmas birthday (because we have so much control over these things), so naturally my little girl has a December 19th birthday. The year she was born was the best Christmas ever, but her 1st birthday honestly sort of overwhelmed me. I put everything off until the last minute and felt pretty beaten down by my expectations versus the quickly approaching less fantastical reality and the general holiday pressure (which can happen whether you're dealing with a December birthday or not). Don't let it happen to you again! I've vowed to finish 80% of my holiday shopping by the end of November, and with all these Black Friday sales I'm feeling on track. My friend Claire from minimartkids.com and I put together a gift guide in case you need some inspiration. We focused mostly on small businesses because I know when I have to spend money it feels a little less painful putting it back into my own community, or into the pocket of mama-owned shops. Claire put together the first 2 and some of my favorite gifts follow. </div>
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<b>TOMBOY PINK</b></div>
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These gifts give my little lady that that girly-ness she craves, without making me want to barf. It’s all about compromise with toddlers, right?</div>
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<span style="font-weight: 700;">Madeline Books:</span></div>
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My toddler LOVES the Madeline book series, and they were some of my favorites growing up too, so they are something we can enjoy together. Also, anything that will distract her from making me read "Cat and the Hat" 300 times a day, is a win for me. These books are available almost anywhere.</div>
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<span style="font-weight: 700;">Nico Nico Long Johns:</span></div>
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This is one of my favorite cozy outfits of the season. A great gender neutral piece that is actually made for day, but I won't judge you if your child wears it to bed. This romper is made of super thick, sweater like organic cotton, and is perfect paired with fuzzy slippers and hot cocoa. </div>
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<a href="http://minimartkids.com/collections/romper/products/heather-long-john" style="color: #50b3da; outline: none; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">http://minimartkids.com/<wbr></wbr>collections/romper/products/<wbr></wbr>heather-long-john</a></div>
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<span style="font-weight: 700;">Yumbox Lunch Box:</span></div>
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As a first time mom I learned quickly, you basically should have an entire meal in your handbag at ALL TIMES. These adorable and modern lunch boxes can hold just about anything without leaking or making a mess, even yogurt!!! My daughter loves hers so much, that she sometimes requests to eat her meals at home out of it. The insert (the part that's holding the food) even pops out, so you don't have to wash the entire thing after each use. I can't say enough about how much we love our Yumbox.</div>
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<a href="http://www.yumboxlunch.com/" style="color: #50b3da; outline: none; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">http://www.yumboxlunch.com/</a></div>
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<span style="font-weight: 700;">Fly Tots Cushion:</span></div>
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This gift is a personal favorite. I bought one for each of my kiddos and we just love them. My daughter likes to throw herself on to anything soft and this fulfills that need in a stylish way. They're the perfect size to make a comfortable seat but are easily carried around the house by the handy handle on the side. They move from our reading nook to our train table to the center of the living room floor and look good wherever they end up! </div>
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<a href="https://www.etsy.com/shop/FlyTots" style="color: #50b3da; outline: none; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">https://www.etsy.com/shop/<wbr></wbr>FlyTots</a></div>
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<span style="font-weight: 700;">Hanna Anderson Slippers:</span></div>
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These are the cutest slippers I've found this year. We definitely have a footwear power struggle in our house, and I know my girl is going to be so excited to wear these because they look like adorable animals, and i'll also love them for aesthetic reasons, as well as for practical reasons like knowing they will stay on her feet because they are boots. </div>
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<a href="http://www.hannaandersson.com/pdp.aspx?from=SC&pcid=60&styleid=42016&simg=42016_96W" style="color: #50b3da; outline: none; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">http://www.hannaandersson.com/<wbr></wbr>pdp.aspx?from=SC&pcid=60&<wbr></wbr>styleid=42016&simg=42016_96W</a></div>
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<b>IT'S A JUNGLE OUT THERE....</b></div>
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<span style="font-weight: 700;">Mini Rodini Leggings:</span></div>
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I LOVE leggings on all toddlers. Why should boys have to wear uncomfy jeans and cargo pants. Blah! This print is great for both genders, and seriously, who doesn't like tiger stripes? These super soft pants are made of 100% organic cotton.</div>
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<a href="http://minimartkids.com/collections/mini-rodini/products/tiger-stripe-legging-by-mini-rodini" style="color: #50b3da; outline: none; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">http://minimartkids.com/<wbr></wbr>collections/mini-rodini/<wbr></wbr>products/tiger-stripe-legging-<wbr></wbr>by-mini-rodini</a></div>
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<span style="font-weight: 700;">Quin Twizzle Lollipops:</span></div>
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Quin candy is handmade in Portland Oregon by some pretty special gals that I happen to know personally. These Lollipops are a reimagined version of an old classic using real ingredients like actual strawberries, blackberries and chocolate. They make such a good stocking stuffer for all family members, as long as you can keep from eating them all yourself.</div>
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<a href="http://quincandy.com/sweetstuff/twizzlie-lollipops" style="color: #50b3da; outline: none; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">http://quincandy.com/<wbr></wbr>sweetstuff/twizzlie-lollipops</a></div>
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<span style="font-weight: 700;">Tattly Temporary Tattoos:</span></div>
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Tattly makes the most beautiful and artistic temporary tattoos around, that are appealing to both children and adults. I love the idea of a subscription, because your child can look forward to receiving new tats in the mail every month. </div>
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<a href="http://tattly.com/products/3-month-tattly-subscription" style="color: #50b3da; outline: none; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">http://tattly.com/products/3-<wbr></wbr>month-tattly-subscription</a></div>
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<span style="font-weight: 700;">Disney Vans:</span></div>
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I'm not usually a fan of character shoes, but for some reason all the new disney themed vans seem to be tugging at my heartstrings. With options like the jungle book (shown here), alice in wonderland and Winnie the Pooh, you seriously cant go wrong. </div>
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<a href="http://www.vans.com/shop/kids-toddler-baby-shoes/toddlers-disney-authentic-the-jungle-book-black" style="color: #50b3da; outline: none; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">http://www.vans.com/shop/kids-<wbr></wbr>toddler-baby-shoes/toddlers-<wbr></wbr>disney-authentic-the-jungle-<wbr></wbr>book-black</a></div>
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<span style="color: #555555; font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="font-weight: 700;">Bright </span><b>Light</b><span style="font-weight: 700;"> Labs:</span></span></div>
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These colorful lights are not just for the holidays. With options to mix and match colors, you can coordinate with any child's room and taste. I see these as a great alternative to a night light, and a fun way to help a child who is scared of the dark.</div>
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<a href="https://www.brightlablights.com/" style="color: #50b3da; outline: none; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">https://www.brightlablights.<wbr></wbr>com/</a></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">THE ADVENTURER</span></b></div>
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<b>Puppet Theatre:</b></div>
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I’m really trying to focus this year on toys that encourage imaginative play (versus pressing a button over and over or whatever), and I LOVE that this pirate-themed puppet theatre can be hung in a doorway or outside! I find my toys get the most longevity when I can put them out of site when we’re not playing with them. Fold this up and easily store it to maintain its wow factor, then hang it up in seconds for hours of fun! </div>
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<a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/159861587/pirate-themed-doorway-puppet-theater" style="color: #50b3da; outline: none; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">https://www.etsy.com/listing/<wbr></wbr>159861587/pirate-themed-<wbr></wbr>doorway-puppet-theater</a></div>
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<b>Maps, by Aleksandra and Daniel Mizielinska </b></div>
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Maps is loaded with intricate artwork and fun facts. This is fun to read to your kids, but also a blast for your little one to pour over at quiet time, looking at which animals and people are found where. Look for it at your favorite local bookstore!</div>
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<b>Boy + Girl outfit, Nico Nico vest and Hansel from Basel socks </b></div>
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I love to shop and gift in outfits, and this is soft and warm and easy for your little adventurer to throw on for exploring and playing.</div>
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<a href="http://minimartkids.com/collections/all" style="color: #50b3da; outline: none; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">http://minimartkids.com/<wbr></wbr>collections/all</a></div>
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<b>MISS MONOCHROMATIC</b></div>
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<b>Forest Friends Nesting Dolls: </b></div>
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It’s always a pleasure to find a toy that makes your space more beautiful, whether it’s neatly put away on a shelf or strewn across the floor. These are just cool to look at. I’m overflowing with nostalgia remembering playing with the nesting dolls I had as a girl and love that this toy is in vogue right now.</div>
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<a href="https://www.etsy.com/listing/192823051/set-of-3-wooden-nesting-dolls-forest" style="color: #50b3da; outline: none; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">https://www.etsy.com/listing/<wbr></wbr>192823051/set-of-3-wooden-<wbr></wbr>nesting-dolls-forest</a></div>
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<b>Black Cat, White Cat by Sylvia Borando:</b></div>
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<b></b>This book has so much visual interest! It’s a relatively short, sweet story about what happens when a black cat from the day time meets a white cat from the night time. It’s a great way to explore what is different about day and night and satisfy my little girl’s love for all things kitty. Available at all major online book retailers, and likely your local book store too!</div>
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<b><span style="color: #555555; font-family: Helvetica;">Anthem of the Ants Dress, Ultra Violet Kids turban and Hansel From Basel leggings: :</span></b></div>
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<b></b>It is so fun to play with color when dressing kids but in my own wardrobe I’m very partial to neutral dressing and think it looks just as sharp on kids (let’s be real, they usually look way sharper than I do). Obviously this dress is everything, and with a turban (this season’s must-have kid accessory) and footless tights it’s easy to make it play-ready. I can’t say enough good things about these footless tights, they go with everything, it takes way longer to grow out of a footless tight, they’re soft and thick, and we’re saved from the slips and falls that come with footed tights. </div>
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<a href="http://minimartkids.com/collections/anthem-of-the-ants/products/bow-party-dress-by-anthem-of-the-ants" style="color: #50b3da; outline: none; text-decoration: none;">http://minimartkids.com/collections/anthem-of-the-ants/products/bow-party-dress-by-anthem-of-the-ants</a></div>
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morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260425339351532228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541629623808924045.post-86843388010582857912015-11-08T11:56:00.000-08:002015-11-08T12:07:58.533-08:00Blinded by the Light and Toddler Fingers<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjenpd7CZp7PoI1JhhbyF67JHxTJU-cdIBbbkIAedeoboj5EMSRHX1EezYaS0SUkUO7gFwDFgT9DCNoi_snR1dW9ZZTaUE6S5vF-A_02l-q0s25NAkfMUPsi0siB4kxYAiwykHAn7BvE3c/s1600/blindblog2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjenpd7CZp7PoI1JhhbyF67JHxTJU-cdIBbbkIAedeoboj5EMSRHX1EezYaS0SUkUO7gFwDFgT9DCNoi_snR1dW9ZZTaUE6S5vF-A_02l-q0s25NAkfMUPsi0siB4kxYAiwykHAn7BvE3c/s320/blindblog2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>In case of eye injury:</b><br />
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Step 1 - create a makeshift eye patch out of pajama pants</div>
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Step 2 - take a selfie and send it to everyone so people</div>
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will feel sorry for you</div>
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Step 3 - seek medical attention</div>
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There’s nothing anyone can tell you to prepare you for being a parent. Still, a heads up about the frequency and severity of eye pokes from little fingers or toys would have been good. I’ve been brought to fetal position by a baby fingernail to the eye enough that it wouldn’t have been unreasonable to adopt protective eyewear as an everyday accessory. Usually t<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">he poke hurts like hell for an hour, there’s some sensitivity for 24 hours and life goes on. This time was different. Tuesday night after Jake had left for some sort of outdoor woodsy hiking fishing manventure, the kids and I were cuddled on the couch watching a movie, when Edie suddenly began wildly flailing her arms about some toddler crisis and my open eyeball was violently swiped with a freshly cut fingernail. I screamed, terrifying the dog and children as I fell to the floor clutching my eye as if my eyeball would rocket out of my skull if I moved my hands. As I continued to feel the searing pain balled on the floor I calmed down enough to let out an unconvincing “it’s okay honey, mama’s fine.” I waited for my words to become true but man, it hurt. After 30 minutes I got up from the floor but it still hurt. It hurt all night but became seriously worse after I drove Holden to school the next exceptionally bright and sunny morning.</span></div>
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Following the drive I pretty much went blind, but was fortunate to be in the best possible place for it to happen (besides an eye clinic which would have been ideal). I could write a book about how much I love my son’s preschool but on this day I became more thankful than ever for the environment of support fostered by our co-operative preschool (at the co-op there’s one teacher and parents take turns volunteering so we all work together and are invested together in the program and in one another’s kids, it rocks). Mamas immediately surrounded me asking what was wrong and how they could help. The drive messed up my already messed up eye enough that it became too painful to open either eye. You may not have noticed, but your eyes move together, so any movement in my good eye caused my right eye to move, resulting in horrific stabbing pain. I remember saying in all seriousness that I'd rather be in labor. I was too stunned to really know what I needed but before I could figure it out sweet mama friends had ushered Holden into class, adopted Edie into the toddler class for the day, volunteered to drive the kids back from school, babysit in the afternoon, made a plan to bring me dinner that night, and then I was being walked to someone’s car to drive me to the doctor. Without hesitation those mamas took me from overwhelmed and vulnerable to wrapped up in a big community hug of unconditional support. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHJLehAQMLAFCOw-n1IQasGiFkwxvhS4f3nLBdgRr1quLhVMVEfD00rdof0j5JnfQc8uPRIvhVyAktfLIb6L9w2_UyguYlrl0p4ToNyWFlVz7xyktifhcK2_kW0ngSvkDyXYojY0VDBjY/s1600/blindblog3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHJLehAQMLAFCOw-n1IQasGiFkwxvhS4f3nLBdgRr1quLhVMVEfD00rdof0j5JnfQc8uPRIvhVyAktfLIb6L9w2_UyguYlrl0p4ToNyWFlVz7xyktifhcK2_kW0ngSvkDyXYojY0VDBjY/s320/blindblog3.jpg" width="283" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here they are, threateningly wielding their weapons. No one is safe.</td></tr>
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Jake didn’t have any cell service and was hours away anyway so I had to rely on a lot of people and while it was an uncomfortable feeling it also made me feel hardcore #blessed to have so many caring people in my life who I didn’t have to feel bad about leaning on. Feeling completely helpless with 2 kids was terrifying, plus there was the significant pain, anxiety about permanent damage, a head cold piled into the mix, and the fact that I was supposed to be getting on a plane for a long-anticipated girl’s weekend away (still bitter about canceling that). Sometimes you need a lot of shitty stuff to amplify your appreciation for the overflowing cornucopia of goodnesses all around you. Without detailing minutiae, Jake got home that night and spent the next few days shuttling me around to opthalmology appointments and doing everything for me and our semi freaked out kids. Turns out Edie punctured and ripped off nearly the entire top layer of my cornea. It took 3 nerve-racking, trying days to see any improvement, and today, 5 days later, is the first time I can see out of both eyes with minimal pain. I’m elated! Vision is the best! </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEBpnxOGcw2AiiuKxh6smeBX-gwFXWFDMpHkw6S9JGAH9UM4r4maHx-zOWdlgAdutufMRRWyj2aXiliFyKfBnKvYKjb3f8QOUEM9GvvUDAlnfM7o2zAjM7Zf3iadtzzWQFjJwC76GsFI8/s1600/blindblog1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEBpnxOGcw2AiiuKxh6smeBX-gwFXWFDMpHkw6S9JGAH9UM4r4maHx-zOWdlgAdutufMRRWyj2aXiliFyKfBnKvYKjb3f8QOUEM9GvvUDAlnfM7o2zAjM7Zf3iadtzzWQFjJwC76GsFI8/s320/blindblog1.jpg" width="179" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The perfect opportunity to<br />
experiment with new looks.</td></tr>
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Life without sight did give me insight into a few things (in-sight lol). Vulnerability and gratitude dominated the experience. It was intensely distressing for me to ask for help but people are so strong and kind and generous, and accepting help is just another way to accept love that people are truly happy to give, even to me! Even to you! When I started to let go of the guilt in accepting help I was able to feel all the love around me and was filled with an eagerness to get better just to pay it forward. The other cool side effect was a sort of calm that filled me during what was essentially sensory deprivation. I never realized how distracting vision is from our other badass senses. After the initial shock and anxiety of not having sight as a tool you can embrace the other stuff and the lack of distraction was actually really peaceful. When my husband finally came home I was able to really hear the butter and gravel in his voice and experiencing the familiar sound in a new way made my heart so happy. I felt my daughter’s cool squishy cheek pressed against mine and my son’s sturdy little arms wrapped around me in a way I wasn’t able to when I was looking past their hugs at whatever else was going on in the room. Even eating was more pleasurable...until I wasn’t hungry any more, which happened much sooner without eyes than it does when I’m staring at my phone, mindlessly shoveling food into my mouth until I feel physical pain. At its best, temporary blindness was like an extended meditation session for me, forcing me to really be in my body and experience that being-ness. Also, I was able to test out the theory that if you do something enough times you can do it blind. I can load the dishwasher blind, I can change a diaper blind, I can feed the dog blind, I can almost make coffee blind but forgot the lid and flooded the counter with coffee grounds and water.</div>
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If I had to choose one takeaway it’s to open your eyes and look at all the color and compassion and love around you, then take the time to close your eyes and feel it too.</div>
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Oh, and wear safety goggles while interacting with children of age 2 months - 3 years.</div>
morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260425339351532228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541629623808924045.post-47530031057613449082015-04-17T10:07:00.003-07:002015-04-17T10:07:37.703-07:00Am I working writer now? Lovers and friends - In an effort to share my talent for spending money on children's clothing some of my words are being featured on minimartkids.com (a favorite online kid's boutique). Check out those words or some precious tiny people pieces <a href="http://minimartkids.com/blogs/news">here.</a>morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260425339351532228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541629623808924045.post-48057579875115917912015-03-27T14:22:00.002-07:002015-03-27T14:51:15.206-07:00Guide to Kids' Styling<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I feel like deep inside me there might be the soul of a creative person, unfortunately I’m in the body of someone who draws like a kindergartner, sings like an injured walrus and can’t seem to make anything out of Playdoh that isn’t at least slightly phallic. The closest thing I’ve found to “my artistic medium” is putting outfits together. For awhile I was fortunate enough to be paid to do that, but life changes, and here I am, unemployed, surrounded by yogurt-flinging snot-nosed small people, likely wearing sweatpants if I’ve mustered the zeal to wear any pants at all.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> I’m a problem solver, so to correct or at least overshadow my sad state of style I focus all of my energy on outfitting my kids. Sure, they still have unruly, sweaty hair and faces covered in food from 3 days ago, but somewhere in my eternally expanding laundry pile lay the remnants of a handful of pretty adorable outfits. You may look at me (or my carefully concocted online persona) and wonder, how does she do it? Well I’m here today to share some Kid Wardrobing Tips with you.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> Okay, first rule of shopping - SHOP IN OUTFITS. This applies to you too. Don’t buy a </span>flowing boho<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> top that catches your eye, or a fierce pair of neon </span>ikat print<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> patent sandals because they’re a steal, unless you have 2-3 things already in your closet that you’ll wear with them. Or, if restraint isn’t a priority on this particular outing, buy 2-3 things to wear with aforementioned expenditure at the time of purchase. This makes it easier to appear stylish versus looking like you fell into a clearance rack. It also makes it less likely that you'll spend your morning staring at your closet wondering what to wear.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Kids are fun/expensive because every time the weather changes it’s time for a new wardrobe. As soon as I think we have enough clothes and I can’t possibly shop anymore, we have the first 70 degree day of spring and I'm faced with a closet full of corduroy overalls and cable knit sweaters, with maybe one pair of board shorts that now fit like hot pants shoved in a far corner of a forgotten drawer. Silver lining: Needing a whole wardrobe at once gives you the opportunity to practice creating a functional wardrobe. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Here’s my MO - I surf kids sites and snap screen shots of clothing I like. Next I use the app PicCollage to see how the pieces I like work together. Often I realize that something I really love doesn’t match any of the pants or shoes I think would work. To get more bang for your buck you'll want your outfits to be interchangeable, which is a lot easier to see in a wardrobe storyboard than it is in multiple online shopping carts. Furthermore, the storyboard visualization is IMO largely preferable to attempting to create a coherent look in a messy store in the mall by digging through a mountain of wrong sizes, trying to corral two wild animal children running opposite directions after being chased by kiosk hand lotion guys while aloof salespeople avoid eye contact. F that noise. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> I enjoy this, or I wouldn't do it, but a bonus is that putting a little bit of time into planning makes it easier for me to find good deals. If you don't have or are unwilling to spend the cash on whatever the mannequins are wearing, it can be really hard to piece together outfits from the sale rack. By the time items are marked down the coordinating pieces and sizes are often long gone. But if you can source from the whole internet's worth of retailers you can get well thought out looks at bargain prices! Boom. </span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My son is 4 so I can still buy him metrosexual floral print t-shirts and Birkenstocks if I want to. These pieces are from Nordstrom.com (old habits die hard) and are made by Peek! and Tea Collection, respectively.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCoB0XvsVo_qEp2klrhDUtFLCVtSxmM7DbWubonKONBHZQ6Ty5VMlSQ00WGxaToFJZMYSIT-V7RP-QL3iHHFxmf1B3z2wnS7KaLo6tFzSFqCBMJqeDWWYhh8-f-oTTF6P5KiiPFskXXdI/s1600/holdenwardrobe2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCoB0XvsVo_qEp2klrhDUtFLCVtSxmM7DbWubonKONBHZQ6Ty5VMlSQ00WGxaToFJZMYSIT-V7RP-QL3iHHFxmf1B3z2wnS7KaLo6tFzSFqCBMJqeDWWYhh8-f-oTTF6P5KiiPFskXXdI/s1600/holdenwardrobe2.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">As much as I love shoes, I've found that buying one good pair a season that match everything is the best bet. While my heart flutters from those Birks above, in my experience you can't beat Keens for a practical summertime every day kid shoe. <br />
The obnoxiously loud lobster shirt is something my sea-creature obsessed son would do flips over, lest you start to believe I only have my own interests in mind here.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB686Bb6dV4eIjyTcv1m1d4Gi_KgzpqzLUGJMrReZ2sHL-mENQ0xs33Q01g1G444bjm31sX2vYZErRRhLwfeAtxqpXB0ZYGByB51Aq99N3MeCej9hcge52ygXPD0DIyI2i4heh7ZDn_w0/s1600/holdenwardrobe3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB686Bb6dV4eIjyTcv1m1d4Gi_KgzpqzLUGJMrReZ2sHL-mENQ0xs33Q01g1G444bjm31sX2vYZErRRhLwfeAtxqpXB0ZYGByB51Aq99N3MeCej9hcge52ygXPD0DIyI2i4heh7ZDn_w0/s1600/holdenwardrobe3.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So this is the example of a board that showed me something that wouldn't work. After I'd made a couple outfit pages I was left with these pieces that I really like individually, but just don't have the versatility of the other stuff. We wear our pants 1-3 times a week and doubling up on star sweats would make Holden "the kid with those flashy star sweats." So these pieces sadly but smartly get the ax.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_EaNEWgsupknKFPxTNLVdlqRVSw7W29g2oRqnEyHv4tycAKhfkzcUCtUftz-w8nrx3JX-7EnDDahwZPa4z_lUBtoCA_B9m0cqWJicGLI48wlsvb_xVl7cCtCDozg4bwwKdEF0Pg9GsVo/s1600/ediewardrobe2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_EaNEWgsupknKFPxTNLVdlqRVSw7W29g2oRqnEyHv4tycAKhfkzcUCtUftz-w8nrx3JX-7EnDDahwZPa4z_lUBtoCA_B9m0cqWJicGLI48wlsvb_xVl7cCtCDozg4bwwKdEF0Pg9GsVo/s1600/ediewardrobe2.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There are SO MANY darling girl's outfits in the world. I've found that when dressing Eden I don't always get the same versatility out of her clothes as I do with Holden's. A lot of her outfits aren't as easily interchangeable, and I think it's largely because I love the girly outfits so much that I can't accept less being more...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXvc0DkNgHnldDCga8cz63n5FE4ud4qLzYQqWcu8gb2H5Ayw6jHwm0nE43N1a9bxGeWGMi9f-hKlJ2DscOVct6UmK_8_kcpbm5XTkFh-zGXiZ_8fXKxrIIR5qMstGBqEAHW8sclZIQYm0/s1600/ediewardrobe3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXvc0DkNgHnldDCga8cz63n5FE4ud4qLzYQqWcu8gb2H5Ayw6jHwm0nE43N1a9bxGeWGMi9f-hKlJ2DscOVct6UmK_8_kcpbm5XTkFh-zGXiZ_8fXKxrIIR5qMstGBqEAHW8sclZIQYm0/s1600/ediewardrobe3.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These pieces (besides the awesome and highly recommended Freshly Picked moccasins) are all from my friend Claire's web boutique minimartkids.com. She's done a masterful job curating pieces that are often gender neutral, and have a childlike whimsy without looking like a cartoonish stork vomited baby pink all over her shop.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIn6WK0JDHWgXQfId89FzngxG-YmQ_tdXxpm_LH5MvP7XjyiEz8GDx3LeDTxlcMUXPHZoUoX-s4MSwkv-ePoGbkhyuWl1bOXrCfJlVWeCW47qLcsZgQlvGZ3UVRZxoxCn2lwb36mPEvXY/s1600/ediewardrobe1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIn6WK0JDHWgXQfId89FzngxG-YmQ_tdXxpm_LH5MvP7XjyiEz8GDx3LeDTxlcMUXPHZoUoX-s4MSwkv-ePoGbkhyuWl1bOXrCfJlVWeCW47qLcsZgQlvGZ3UVRZxoxCn2lwb36mPEvXY/s1600/ediewardrobe1.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is my one girl storyboard where it's easy to mix and match. I think if you have core pieces that easily coordinate it's always okay to have an outfit or two that stands alone. For Edie's looks I sourced from gap.com, nordstrom.com, bodenusa.com and minimartkids.com.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> If you've made it to the end of this post I'm guessing you're either thinking "you're a vacuous freak with too much time on your hands" or hopefully some variant of "what a cute idea, I can't wait to make my own!" in which case, I'd love to see what you come up with. I'm available and enthusiastic about talking kid style, your style, or really any topic at all with you any time!</span></div>
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morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260425339351532228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541629623808924045.post-47834609391925095192015-02-03T23:46:00.001-08:002015-02-04T16:00:52.097-08:00The Pros and Cons of Co-Sleeping<div style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I co-sleep. It’s okay if you don’t. My kids are welcome in my bed but I totally get why families would make different choices. Nonethelesss, I will share my biased and at times sarcastic pros and cons of bed-sharing with you now:</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKsiJgRCO4U19e2B8Ik4AZLyVJQaEPjmd8sIQdBJjGFXe_5s4ErtqF5XA3iopsUocRQKv1y2PSAjcPdDqZmcZHsuDZ97r-g-84P4c-6KkeP1_JZPfJIe7yA1L9F44F5cdpcovQq3bbow8/s1600/IMG_7262.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKsiJgRCO4U19e2B8Ik4AZLyVJQaEPjmd8sIQdBJjGFXe_5s4ErtqF5XA3iopsUocRQKv1y2PSAjcPdDqZmcZHsuDZ97r-g-84P4c-6KkeP1_JZPfJIe7yA1L9F44F5cdpcovQq3bbow8/s1600/IMG_7262.JPG" height="200" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Con</b>:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My husband and I can’t have sex in our bed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Pro</b>:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My husband and I don’t have boring “well we’re both in bed, might as well do it” sex. We both possess the ingenuity to overcome the “obstacle” of an occupied bed with gusto. The bed is great for missionary, the rest of the house is awesome for other stuff. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM1naeG-CNwOW2m-mKpWEPjD8gkva9WdUzGarY-kTNiG2wih0-hgy3JXAb4qi7YT_Eukmk7n1lFvAkAqhB6XP_XEZbLbXpUBbgB-mmuwXc3BEEHtwqp6VLBmLK1Clg-X2kEgKTZjJTNpU/s1600/IMG_2724.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM1naeG-CNwOW2m-mKpWEPjD8gkva9WdUzGarY-kTNiG2wih0-hgy3JXAb4qi7YT_Eukmk7n1lFvAkAqhB6XP_XEZbLbXpUBbgB-mmuwXc3BEEHtwqp6VLBmLK1Clg-X2kEgKTZjJTNpU/s1600/IMG_2724.JPG" height="200" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Con</b>:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Children create a spousal cuddling barrier. Occasionally I’d like to fall asleep in the cozy nook of my husband’s arm.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Pro</b>:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No pressure to cuddle. You’d think more bodies = less space = more cuddling, but your kids just want to be near you, they don’t need to embrace you. I’m a stomach sleeper, which is not at all conducive to cuddling. Pre-kids, rolling away from my husband to happily sleep on my stomach made me an asshole, now it's just part of being a loving parent.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilU0MRvvK3EBEg7dpbv53c0lpoKULOUvHpuj74czyXHMsCHHFYd1uyvYf3pUs5woXEy0EtwMdly1RrlPW8uPU8xL3VJWGqyJpUYUqEtYj3VezjOoHlWP_PIIvQw9ecmtaiMpu_eLyhYKI/s1600/IMG_7666.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilU0MRvvK3EBEg7dpbv53c0lpoKULOUvHpuj74czyXHMsCHHFYd1uyvYf3pUs5woXEy0EtwMdly1RrlPW8uPU8xL3VJWGqyJpUYUqEtYj3VezjOoHlWP_PIIvQw9ecmtaiMpu_eLyhYKI/s1600/IMG_7666.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Con</b>: </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">TOENAILS. About 5 days post-trim my children sprout dagger talons fit for pterodactyls. If you forget to trim those nails there will be a 2:00a.m. reenactment of Psycho under your sheets.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Pro</b>:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">BABY SKIN. If silk and cashmere and heated blankets and every pure and good memory you’ve ever had culminated in some sort of lovechild, that being would be almost as magical as the skin of a sleeping child. If you could cuddle up to a doll-sized flower petal that emanated warmth and angelic goodness, wouldn’t you seize the opportunity?</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdEml2LKIM25LnQrtYYBwEcdKbfW_FFomhIkvLkY8wAkBogm90VEGlkLWP697UYc5tnekFHm-a0Wmxqsia4MaAAJV0XZqCrDo2S3HWJFe4ENZRsEsIp5czT_sZhohwrR_fpRrmNYlcqm4/s1600/IMG_7869.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdEml2LKIM25LnQrtYYBwEcdKbfW_FFomhIkvLkY8wAkBogm90VEGlkLWP697UYc5tnekFHm-a0Wmxqsia4MaAAJV0XZqCrDo2S3HWJFe4ENZRsEsIp5czT_sZhohwrR_fpRrmNYlcqm4/s1600/IMG_7869.JPG" height="200" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Con</b>:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Unsafe co-sleeping: If you have a ton of blankets, a ton of pillows, a super soft cushy bed, and/or you are a smoker, intoxicated, sedated, or sleep heavily to the point you are totally unaware of the precious bundle of joy lying next to you, it’s not safe to co-sleep. If you’re sharing the bed with someone who is any of those things it may not be safe to co-sleep. The younger your infant is, the truer this is. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi26Xdg_6DnwbqvVWcMX5Rc6oYz6k5XuPJFfLw9P1momNYpzGurcANEMh_vvuHdk1Y4F0SmVyo1eYwv4v1_7RV4f4BRDYAQuuzhkc_vXsd11KEyy2z2dBsIxqJdBDdlb1WMTfPWhJLvLMk/s1600/IMG_9825.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi26Xdg_6DnwbqvVWcMX5Rc6oYz6k5XuPJFfLw9P1momNYpzGurcANEMh_vvuHdk1Y4F0SmVyo1eYwv4v1_7RV4f4BRDYAQuuzhkc_vXsd11KEyy2z2dBsIxqJdBDdlb1WMTfPWhJLvLMk/s1600/IMG_9825.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Pro</b>:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In my experience as a mother, my awareness is so ferociously tuned in to the well-being of my children it makes me feel like I have a f!#%ing superpower. I thought I was a heavy sleeper, but I leap out of bed, ready for action, at the softest murmur. After years of sleeping with 2 kids, the concern that I could roll over on to my own baby seems totally ridiculous. Research shows breastfeeding mothers naturally co-sleep on their side, creating a safe pocket for their babies to nestle into. Sleeping near your baby syncs your breath and actually decreases the risk of SIDS when done safely. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0FIdVUCfv4xQPEs64hWjkJs2qZNDLTl_ETIpCgu8OloxT20OYk5C6gBDiGgwollgeXm36PmCXbtq7ObOvldVVmm2QZzuthkn6uqy92vFV7BR2MURF1Ek7cE5MYCIfy6hlBWokI7Z03m8/s1600/IMG_1197.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0FIdVUCfv4xQPEs64hWjkJs2qZNDLTl_ETIpCgu8OloxT20OYk5C6gBDiGgwollgeXm36PmCXbtq7ObOvldVVmm2QZzuthkn6uqy92vFV7BR2MURF1Ek7cE5MYCIfy6hlBWokI7Z03m8/s1600/IMG_1197.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Con</b>:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Breastfeeding at night. Some people tell me their baby started sleeping through the night (without eating) as early as (insert whatever number here) months. My one year old still nurses a couple times a night. This interferes with my stomach sleeping which occasionally bums me out.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Pro</b>:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Dream feeding. Dream feeding is hippy speak for breastfeeding at night time. It doesn’t require sitting up, or picking up a baby, or even staying awake. At our house, the baby fusses, I’m roused immediately, pull out a boob, the baby attaches, we both fall back asleep. When I worked 50 hours a week dream feeding was a way to bond and keep my milk supply strong. Plus, it turns out, the milk mothers produce in the nighttime often contains elevated levels of tryptophan (the stuff in turkey that makes us sleepy), which helps regulate sleep, establishing healthy circadian rhythms, and essentially teaching night-nursers that nighttime is sleeptime.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My kids rely on me to sleep. They rely on me to comfort their fears and provide them with security. They do not realize they are utterly alone in a sometimes cold and horrible world. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My kids know they can rely on me. I’m their mom all day long, then, at night time, when they have physical needs like warmth or hunger, or emotional needs, like a finger to hold, or a soothing touch, I’m still on duty. My hope is they can rely on me as long as they need to in order to secure a worldview where they’re loved, they’re safe, and their feelings at all hours of the day are important and valid.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisfpaR_kKFqv6dbsck-vkOmPV0JFGF_HczMc5iGEZf7-Xgji0fw_xy588dKmA4vitqm2Wil5VMOi-LQ337CjsE-qz7LzQys3azlkZRWKqanhRfOwHsnUyaNY01hwooB3-jvJF0xYhHzY8/s1600/IMG_6821.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisfpaR_kKFqv6dbsck-vkOmPV0JFGF_HczMc5iGEZf7-Xgji0fw_xy588dKmA4vitqm2Wil5VMOi-LQ337CjsE-qz7LzQys3azlkZRWKqanhRfOwHsnUyaNY01hwooB3-jvJF0xYhHzY8/s1600/IMG_6821.JPG" height="200" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Who knows how long this madness will go on. If I had a nickel for everyone who’s warned me “If you don’t get them out of your bed by ____ months, you never will!” I’d probably have the money to convert my entire bedroom into one big bed (so we wouldn’t have to squeeze the 4 of us into a mere king size).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><b>Pro</b>:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This too shall pass. Even the most avid co-sleeper usually chooses to sleep on his or her own by the onset of puberty (13ish). I know it’s hard to fathom that one day they’ll recoil from our touch, that jumping into our arms will be replaced with stiff side-hugs, the endless stream of consciousness speech will morph into shrugs and grunts, and we’ll remember the way their bare sticky skin felt pressed against ours in the middle of a summer night with a longing so intense we’d trade 20 years of sleeping soundly for one more night to rock them to sleep. But that day is coming. So tonight, my bed is a family bed. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I know I’m missing a lot of pros, and a lot of cons! Please feel free to share yours in the comments.</span></div>
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morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260425339351532228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541629623808924045.post-3116838773606722512014-11-18T11:11:00.000-08:002014-11-23T13:43:32.620-08:00Mommy Metamorphis<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Last spring my life changed drastically enough that if I wasn’t on social media (and a horrible liar) I could have told a believable story about entering a witness protection program. I went from being a city loving, Designer label obsessed, full time working career woman, to moving to a town 3 hours away from the nearest Trader Joe’s and staying home nearly 24/7 to sing nursery rhymes and read 5-paged board books. Turns out you can shed your caterpillar skin for butterfly wings more than once in your life. I view this big life change as Part Deux of what we’ll call my Mom Metamorphosis. </span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not a Mom</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> For me, the hardest part of becoming a mother wasn’t the sleepless nights or my new job as an around the clock milk fountain (though admittedly those were tough). The most difficult transition was how I thought about my identity. Who was I? What was important to me? Was I the same girl who lived downtown and complained when I saw children at restaurants I was drinking a cocktail in? Was I still the dirty joke-loving, daytime drinking advocate who frowned upon flats and poly-blends? Was I the 19 year old who while partying with a friend had an in-depth soul bearing conversation (the kind only possible after midnight and a lot of consumption of stuff 19 year olds shouldn’t be consuming) where we decided the saddest fate possible was that of his suburban mother whose weekly high point was her water aerobics class? We made a pact never to succumb to the bullshit white picket fence mediocrity society tried to shove down our throats, to refuse to settle for a sedated life inside whatever box The Man assigned us. Today that conversation haunts me every time I longingly peruse yoga class schedules online. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Take a picture of us, being parents! I'll get my white linen jacket!</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> I had a baby, before most of my friends did, and in the face of a lot of doubt and uncertainty and fear I fell madly in love with a depth and strength of purpose I’d never imagined possible. Kicking and screaming I transformed into a mother. But I was a working mother, and remnants of my former identity were easily channeled into my career. Work was the place I could still be an adult, an independent being who existed outside of fulfilling the needs of my child. I took pride in being different than mini-van driving, sneaker wearing moms, and I distanced myself from the perceived privilege of being a stay at home mother. Typical us vs. them BS where I martyred myself as a “real” mother (obviously experience is only real if you suffer) because I pumped milk in the bathroom 4 times a day, spent my lunch break staring at pictures of my baby, and most mornings I pulled a screaming child off my leg to get out the door and cry on my way to work. I tried really hard to believe that I was a working mom because my career was my sense of self and I </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">couldn’t be a good parent without a sense of self. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTIen-WlDoQoHQH9ID0wpHOdSv_uiTog4jzsdkjwgthPSskRjE-GsN6Bl_27ntu7PQkpuXoq3GWB2IPWdq_x8iU40qr1OwSapDoL1AWQqucWg5KRhN9yVkmDe1Hq9Nhp6z4EzfOC2GLVk/s1600/IMG_4221.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTIen-WlDoQoHQH9ID0wpHOdSv_uiTog4jzsdkjwgthPSskRjE-GsN6Bl_27ntu7PQkpuXoq3GWB2IPWdq_x8iU40qr1OwSapDoL1AWQqucWg5KRhN9yVkmDe1Hq9Nhp6z4EzfOC2GLVk/s1600/IMG_4221.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Am I holding it right?</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> The problem was, the longer I was a mom, the more my priorities shifted and my sense of self morphed. Before long, my love for my child shaped so much of who I was and what was important to me, and a lot of that turned out to be inharmonious with selling enough clothing in a day to pay for a year of college tuition. As a mom, I grew an appreciation for polyester’s ability to fight wrinkles and withstand a lot of machine washing. I started to think it would be pretty convenient to have a vehicle with seating for lots of kids, you know, like a van, but mini. It seemed so dumb to wear Designer heels to the zoo. I found more beauty in my son’s finger painting than I saw in whatever walked the runway. I was losing my footing on the foundation of who I thought I was. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Work Morgan was fine with pausing story time to reply to an e-mail. Work Morgan was happy to come in on her day off. Work Morgan professed her eagerness to relocate away from family for a promotion. Work Morgan was a person constantly at odds with Mom Morgan. When Mom Morgan and Work Morgan both got pregnant again, the dichotomy became too much. I wanted to dedicate more to my family, but I also just wanted to live holistically as one person whose life had some congruency with her values (also, I wanted to never talk in 3rd person like that, ever fucking again).</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXrbbUHlOaJ485Wx7-4cZ2kVyWQRC7Gch1hcsdrAovs80mh57ViU3zeo8J-wJe8-JTC2C9PAHkoV0m7Xk-O6OhZD6tSu9htX8NDiI_ZmzXAK17lgvC1O-g00iYJgrB8hMjPpXoZA7D05o/s1600/IMG_3777.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXrbbUHlOaJ485Wx7-4cZ2kVyWQRC7Gch1hcsdrAovs80mh57ViU3zeo8J-wJe8-JTC2C9PAHkoV0m7Xk-O6OhZD6tSu9htX8NDiI_ZmzXAK17lgvC1O-g00iYJgrB8hMjPpXoZA7D05o/s1600/IMG_3777.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here pregnant Work Morgan takes a quick on the job selfie<br />
wearing a silk Donna Karan dress and 4 inch YSL heels.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3bKQTxFftr0j-5YVTvMDOuPU87VOMbu0LMbIYLobzLZY5lfy48ABZvJM8R5-xJe5KvvQ0gifnjCIC7G8mg2daW9mxfyz7So5W6FO_YGAM_vCEtPwAjws_TO8owDcCD0BJAWC0TP_FasY/s1600/IMG_4398.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3bKQTxFftr0j-5YVTvMDOuPU87VOMbu0LMbIYLobzLZY5lfy48ABZvJM8R5-xJe5KvvQ0gifnjCIC7G8mg2daW9mxfyz7So5W6FO_YGAM_vCEtPwAjws_TO8owDcCD0BJAWC0TP_FasY/s1600/IMG_4398.jpg" height="320" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And here is pregnant Mom Morgan, sporting glasses,<br />
a men's hoody and double chin.</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> When my husband was offered a position in the wine industry in Walla Walla 3 months after our daughter was born it was an invitation to start over. No more commutes, no more sales goals, no more convincing myself that what I was doing was meaningful enough to spend 50 hours a week away from my family, meaningful enough to miss first steps, serve microwaved dinners, and fall asleep on the floor by the crib from exhaustion at 8pm. I’d thought I was trapped in my career by needing the money, but after what we spent on childcare, gas, convenient food, lattes, and work clothes it turns out I was spending most of the money I made by working on working. So we moved 4 hours away from my identity as a working mom. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">*I think it’s important to interject that I’m very aware not everyone has the luxury to be a stay at home mom, and that plenty of moms (and dads) feel the same as I did when I left my job but stay anyway because they have to. And lots of moms/dads are great parents who love to work. I’m sure a vast majority of parents around the world would find my identity struggle and butterfly metaphors frivolous and annoying compared to their real problems. No value judgments here, just talking about my personal experience. Now we’ll return to our regularly schedule frivolity. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> So who’s emerged from the chrysalis now that we moved 4 hours away from who I used to be? Remember when you started middle school? Maybe you got boobs over the summer, or your braces came off, or you grew 5 inches. You’d watched enough Jenny Jones geek to chic episodes to prepare you for your dramatic debut as the New You, ready to start over with a clean slate. “Here I am, 12 years old, on the precipice of the rest of my life. It’s time to make my mark and be who I want to be.” I felt a pinch of that (except with an extra 10 pounds of baby weight instead of newly developed breasts) moving to a new town and starting a new life. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom Morgan in full affect.</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> Only I’m still not sure who I am as a stay at home mom. I have a preconceived notion that I’m no June Cleaver. But what does that mean? Did I scoff at elaborate crafts on Pinterest because I think that’s lame, or is it because I never had time to do it? Do I not like to cook or do I just not know how? Should I keep a really clean home because I like it that way, or should the house stay kind of messy because it would be anti-feminist of me to do all the cleaning? Do I wear sweatpants to the grocery store, or do I wear make up whenever I leave the house? Am I Frazzled Mom, Does it All Mom, or Edgy Hip Mom? </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNNHvtVWoOIKqYIVHGHGZVLf-mdhIWcy5GvZ5ePEr8sdohDz5ERlIB9KEYfoIE2vDeqVggvmTun4iqEX7vUVBogujIwCOGARX4qez7bd9W-Ml9XZdgfOQ_JX17-_650slERrp3PYffBNs/s1600/IMG_1727.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNNHvtVWoOIKqYIVHGHGZVLf-mdhIWcy5GvZ5ePEr8sdohDz5ERlIB9KEYfoIE2vDeqVggvmTun4iqEX7vUVBogujIwCOGARX4qez7bd9W-Ml9XZdgfOQ_JX17-_650slERrp3PYffBNs/s1600/IMG_1727.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Maybe the key to staying out of the box I was so afraid society was trying to force me into is not worrying about cultivating or avoiding an identity as a mother. I’m all of those moms at some point in any given day. There’s a part of me that wants to make fun of the woman who looks forward to baby wearing and pushing the stroller to the Farmer’s Market every Saturday. There’s a part of me that rolls my eyes at my aspirations to run for office at the co-op preschool next year. There’s a part of me that vomits at the person who copied a carmel apple dipping bar off Pinterest and then posted a picture on Instagram like I do that shit all the time. But you know what? Those candy covered carmel apples were delicious.</span></div>
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morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260425339351532228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541629623808924045.post-89652524297607646402014-11-01T16:22:00.001-07:002014-11-23T13:31:12.963-08:00Can Kids Be A-Holes Too?<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> I follow a parenting blog that annoys the hell out of me. I completely agree with the philosophy, and find much of the information presented helpful, so I’ve always wondered what it is that rubs me the wrong way. I figured it out one day. An article was posted along the lines of “Your baby isn’t the asshole, you are,” and it targeted the evil parents who use words like asshole to describe their children for behaving like children. I read the humorless, angry article and my initial thought was “maybe you’re the asshole, lady.” Was I feeling defensive or ashamed because I have admittedly used the term when writing or talking about my children? I spent a few minutes contemplating how much of an asshole I am. I could fill a large bucket with ways I do indeed qualify as an asshole, but tweeting that “I can’t tell if my baby is teething or just an asshole” isn’t really one of them. What bothered me wasn't just the need to defend the use of profanity in reference to my children, it was that this lady was attacking my right to take parenting lightly.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; text-align: center;">You're not an asshole, but your behavior is reminiscent of the way an asshole might behave in this situation.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> Do I think my baby is an asshole? Do I think any baby or child is even capable of being an asshole?</span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> The honest, serious answer is an unequivocal no. Being an asshole is when you </span><i style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px;">choose</i><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> to neglect the needs or feelings of others. So kids act like assholes, but they can’t really be assholes. The needs of your child do trump yours, and expecting a baby or a toddler to show empathy for how you might be feeling is </span>borderline<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> cray cray. Children are sweet little creatures dealing with a whirlwind of needs, wants and sensory experiences. They don’t have the time or cognitive ability to give a crap about what you want. So they behave like tiny extreme versions of adult assholes, but that is their natural state, and it’s sweet and beautiful and only occasionally annoying because they are pure beings completely immersed in </span></span><i style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px;">being.</i><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> So why would I occasionally use name calling banned from basic cable channels to describe my own tiny, sweet and beautiful id creations? At the risk of explaining away the humor, it’s hyperbolic. It’s so ridiculous to call a little angel with its warm sugar scented buttery smooth skin, wiggly little wrinkled toes and whispy tufts of downy hair an asshole that it’s funny. Also, every time I use a word reserved for difficult adults to describe a baby I envision an adult in whatever offensive situation my child has gotten into. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> Close your eyes and envision an asshole prototype. You turn the dictionary to asshole and this guy’s picture is there. Here’s mine: Late 30’s, hasn’t shaved in days, neon trucker hat with sunglasses pushed over it, Affliction tee, occasionally spitting tobacco in an old beer can. Maybe you are picturing a Wall Street suit type. Maybe a punk kid. Maybe Regina George. Now picture whatever your choice asshole image is behaving like a toddler. He throws his sippy cup across the room, falls to the floor and screams “MY JOOSH IS TOO WET!!!” Then imagine him standing at your bookshelf, pulling out and dropping books to the floor one by one as he giggles maniacally. Suddenly he tugs his pants down and starts running around the house bottomless. He begs you for a bowl of oatmeal, you make it and then he throws it at you and cries because he doesn’t know where his joosh is. This is silly stuff here, people. If your co-worker did any of that unapologetically, if your waitress did it, if your roommate did it, that would be asshole behavior (as well as cause for intervention from a mental health specialist).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> I suppose I feel entitled to use edgy hyperbole because I possess enough fundamental knowledge of human development to know that babies aren't manipulative. They aren’t trying to take advantage of us; their full time job is figuring out how to get their legitimate needs met. To think otherwise is very much ridiculous. I guess it isn’t ridiculous to everyone…there is a lot of conventional “wisdom” out there that says you’ll spoil your baby if you hold her too much, or responding to his crying teaches him that’s how to get attention. If you believe (contrary to massive amounts of peer-reviewed scientific research on secure attachment) that your baby is a manipulative person capable of being spoiled, maybe you also actually believe your baby is an asshole. If you are calling your baby an asshole and meaning it I’m the first to say, woah dude, you are the asshole. However, in my personal experience I’ve never come across anyone referring to their baby as an asshole without a strong hint of sarcasm. In my experience, parents generally love </span>the<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> $&%! out of their kids. I would postulate that people harboring feelings of anger toward their babies to the point of considering them assholes probably wouldn’t be blogging, writing books or laughing at a coffee shop about it. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> It’s not that I firmly believe all parents need to indulge in the catharsis of sardonically referring to their kids as assholes, but I do believe all parents (and caretakers in general) need to vent, and laughter has always been the most </span>efficient<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> ventilation system for me. Parenthood is a vigorous, rewarding journey of growth and magic, but many moments are so over-the-top stressful, draining and/or demeaning that your response options quickly narrow to laugh or cry. To me, an attempt to educate parents that is entirely devoid of humor is devoid of understanding. That’s why the blog I mentioned annoys me. The absence of humor feels cold and judgmental, and the article “your baby isn’t the asshole, you are” openly embraces that judgment.</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> Maybe my need to find humor in everything is detrimental. I know people take me the wrong way sometimes (okay, a lot of times). A good friend once said “Oh Morgan, your glass half empty dry sense of humor cracks me up.” She meant it as a compliment, but it stung because man, that perception of me was so far off from how I actually experience the world. I mean, I cry tears of joy anytime there is an on-screen portrayal of birth, including every time Kourtney has a baby on Keeping up with the Kardashians. If that’s not optimistic, what is? When people really know me I hope they know I find the spectrum of human emotion and our shared experience in love and joy and sadness to be so deeply beautiful that any expression of pessimism is satirical. Maybe humor and self-deprecation detract from the weight of truly important things (like raising children with love), but maybe it amplifies the realness of our communal struggle. Either way, peace and love to all you assholes.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> PS - I'd love to hear your thoughts on parental venting, especially in the age of over-sharing.</span></div>
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morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260425339351532228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541629623808924045.post-64275688004874317342014-09-30T09:56:00.002-07:002014-11-23T13:44:56.462-08:00Squashed Hopes<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> The kitchen is not my natural habitat. </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">My natural habitat is a trendy downtown loft apartment, lounging on a blue velvet sofa drinking sparkling wine bought off an eye level shelf in the grocery store. If I’d remained childless my diet would probably still consist of the two major food groups: thai take out and styrofoam cupped pasta with powdered food-alternative flavoring. I was totally cool with not being very domestic, it was an important piece in my arsenal of adorable idiosyncrasies, along with watching boring old Audrey Hepburn movies and talking about how repulsive I found any activity where heels weren’t appropriate. You know, cool, modern, downtown girl stuff. Very Carrie Bradshaw. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> When I met my winemaker/foodie/cooking husband and charmed him with my quirky downtown bad girl ways I was satisfied to have scored a lifelong live-in chef. And he was satisfied believing that without him I'd starve to death. I hadn’t ever spent a minute dreaming about the kind of wife, or mother, or homemaker I would be. I spent more time imagining myself hiring and firing, giving inspirational speeches, and delegating closet layout plans to an interior decorator. But then I had kids, fell madly in love with them, and wanted nothing but to make them the center of my universe and be around them all the time, and my dream came true! What I didn’t consider when chasing my dream was that as a full-time homemaker I would have to bite the likely under-seasoned bullet and learn to prepare food in a way conducive to my family’s survival. It hasn’t gone well.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> After preparing like 3 recipes with relative success (</span>i.e.<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> no </span>poisoning)<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> I was so intoxicated by what I thought was a newly discovered talent (I know there’s untapped genius in there somewhere) that I threw an impromptu dinner party. I planned to make spinach risotto and like 5 other courses and impress upon my guests my new identity as a small town wife bringing big city flavor to a dinner table near you. 10 minutes before the beginning of said dinner party I realized I used orzo instead of arborio rice, which, translated for all of my kindred spirits who don’t know what the fuck the difference is, means I made a nasty soggy mess instead of the intended light and fluffy risotto. Naturally I ran to the stairwell to sit and cry for a few minutes, during which I set a pan of $31/lb pine nuts on fire, activating the smoke detector and filling the house up like Cheech and Chong in a low rider just AS THE GUESTS ARRIVED. </span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Last week I tried to make mashed potatoes. Again, I had become overly confident. The risotto incident was behind me and I'd inflated my ego by figuring out how to put meat in the slow cooker (prior to 2014 I NEVER ONCE cooked meat, not so much as a slice of bacon). I had some potatoes handy and figured I could make some mashers without following a recipe, since I'd blossomed into this gifted culinary meat-preparing goddess. “Get stuff hot, then add butter or whatever. I get it, cooking isn’t that hard after all!” I thought arrogantly. I washed and boiled the potatoes, then drained the water, threw in the greater part of a stick of butter, got my beaters and went to work. Before long I wondered why my arm was cramping up from holding an electric beater and noticed the spuds were quite rock-like once you got past the first centimeter. Apparently that's an indicator of rawness (not the Sunday night WWE kind). I couldn’t continue to boil them because t</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">hey were 20% mashed, so I just turned the stove back on, added an obscene amount of butter, splashed in some milk, shook my arm out, and went back to digging forcefully into the hard center of each potato with the electric mixer. Soon the baby’s crying ushered in a welcome reprieve from the boring potato ordeal, and this wench left the galley to administer a baby nap. Upon my return 20 minutes later the 65% mashed potatoes were on fire. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Forget Sex and the City, I’m living one long I Love Lucy episode. It’s not all bad. I have to admit it feels good to make a meal that’s satisfying to your family, especially when it requires so much effort on my part. There’s a part of me, quietly living in a basement apartment deep down below many levels of laziness, that appreciates a challenge. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Now every week I’m challenged to try new things. Hooray! We had the great fortune of inheriting a friend’s farm box subscription after he moved. Until November, every Tuesday, we get to pick up a big wooden crate of fresh, organic, horse-farmed local vegetables. Every week I’m faced with a new ingredient challenge, which I usually embark on timidly, never certain that my google search of the vegetable’s features has led me to correctly identify it.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> For 3 weeks I’ve been collecting and avoiding squash from my farm box. At least my best guess was that it was squash. Each week brought a different shape and color, but the stems were my clue that it was all likely from the squash/pumpkin realm of veggies, which I was familiar with thanks to seasonal Pottery Barn table centerpieces. I hit up Pinterest for squash recipes and was quickly overwhelmed. Summer, winter, acorn, spaghetti, butternut? What does it all mean? </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> After a week of research I determined I did not have summer squash. I read a website that says mostly all squash is interchangeable so I threw my squash inhibitions to the wind and decided on a recipe that didn't require me to go to the grocery store. The straightforward recipe suggested I peel and cube the squash, roast it with some garlic, then serve it with quinoa. That sounded like it was in my card house. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Monday I woke up early and decided that the only thing I wanted to accomplish with my day was converting the menacing squash into edible form. I didn’t even shower because that didn’t serve my one purpose: squash prep. I waited out a very grumpy baby who threatened to nap for hours before actually napping, then I set to work. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Long story short, I repeatedly stabbed the squash with multiple knives, sometimes 2 at a time, vigilantly terrified of the limb severing that could occur any minute by my unwieldy knife handling. No less than five times I matter-of-factly screamed at my son “DON’T COME IN THE KITCHEN WHILE MOMMY HAS A KNIFE.” (He was in the midst of his own personal emergency where he needed to pull on my pant leg and ask if I was <i>sure</i> <b>all</b> birds have wings over and over and over and over.) After 45 minutes, 6 new profane word combos, and the fortunate retention of all body parts I achieved peeled squash cubes. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Squash cubes garnished with blood, sweat and tears.</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> What was really frustrating for me was the powerlessness I felt when it was just me against the squash. I had so many questions, and no answers. How has no one spoken out against the evil torment that is squash preparation? Is it common knowledge that squash is best prepared with a chainsaw? How did the Native Americans do this and still feel up for having Thanksgiving with a bunch of oppressive pilgrim dicks? Do Native Americans still laugh today about pulling off the ultimate covert revenge through introducing the pain in the ass that is squash? Why do I think Native Americans introduced squash, is that a totally unfounded ignorant assumption? If you were starving to death and given a squash would you eat it or would you throw it away, knowing the exertion required to prepare it would negate the eventual caloric intake? Why is life so hard? What am I missing? </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> After seeking out advice I’ve come to the conclusion that I need to sharpen my knives, and never again follow a recipe that doesn’t begin with baking the squash. In the end, the squash/quinoa combo was as boring as you'd think. Hopefully this post isn’t as boring as you’d think an essay about a failed squash recipe would be. And please, don’t worry about me… I won’t let one dish of adversity squash my hopes of obtaining a basic level of competency in the kitchen.</span></div>
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morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260425339351532228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541629623808924045.post-34347388594202758872014-09-23T15:37:00.000-07:002014-11-23T13:44:10.720-08:00Autonomy for Moms in 30 Minutes or Less<div style="font-family: Helvetica; min-height: 13px;">
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">Being a full-time mommy at home puts you into a strange time vortex. I still remember what it felt like to work full time with a baby, and I frequently find myself marveling at how busy I feel as a stay-at-homer. The vortex feels especially pronounced and indescribable when people ask what you've been up to lately, and time stops while you have a conversation with yourself in your head,</span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> “Hmm, well I haven’t washed my hair in 3 days so I must have been pretty busy. Let’s see…I did sweep the floor like 15 times so the baby would eat less dirt but that’s probably not interesting. Um, I could talk about how I watched the first 10 minutes of the Lego movie like 7 times. What the $%&! have I been doing? This person just wants to know what I’ve been up to and I'm standing here with my jaw open like a half wit. Why is this such a hard question? Was I roofied? Where did the last week of my life go? WHAT HAVE I BEEN DOING THE LAST 3 YEARS?” This is the thing - there’s a ton of free time, but it happens in minute increments between a cornucopia of mind-numbingly mundane but vital tasks.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pre-school. AKA 3 hours of vacation for me twice a week.<br />
Right? No, wrong. Totally wrong.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Last week my 3 year old started preschool. The first day I came home, just me and the baby, I </span>jovially<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> performed my </span>signature<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> “hitting the jackpot” dance consisting of fist pumps, shimmies and twerking but without any of the sexiness usually associated with the shaking of lady parts. “Dude, I’m going to be so productive because having one kid is a piece of a cake! (I refer to myself as dude in my head because myself and I have an understanding that I’m way chill and laid back.)</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Maybe I can write and really get in the zone, instead of attempting original thoughts and typing while my son climbs on my back begging for a 4th banana as if we’re a gorilla family with the great fortune of owning a laptop." Well, one baby isn’t as liberating as I’d hoped. My son is at school, and my daughter is taking a nap, but I realize now nap time isn't freedom. Really it provokes more anxiety than the rest of the day. The second that baby closes its eyes, a timer is set for an unknown amount of time. During this time you need to complete no less than 20 chores, and squeeze in some “you time” before you hear the cry </span>signaling<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> your thirty minute serving of autonomy has concluded.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">The </span>caveat<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> to enjoying yourself in the “down time” moments of 24/7 mothering is that inevitably you will be interrupted, and then you’ll be pissed. You’re pissed because for a minute there you transcended the housework and diaper changes and were reminded that you have a mind, a body, or maybe even a soul capable of doing whatever it is that you were enjoying - writing, yoga, painting your nails, weaving macramé. Inescapably (usually within 30-45 minutes with my light napping kids) you’re jolted out of peaceful euphoria WAY before you feel like returning to your gig as slave to 2 people who can’t even name the current secretary of state. It’s like being woken up by a tree falling through your roof right before the good part in a steamy dream. “Great, not only is nothing sexy happening, but there is a massive hole in the upper part of my house and it’s forecasted to rain.” Most days you won’t say it, but you will look at your kids and think in capital letters “UGH…YOU AGAIN.” Immediately you’ll realize you are horrible and then berate yourself about being a selfish unloving person. The guilt will make you grumpier, less fun to play with and even meaner to your kids. Sensing your </span>hesitance<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> to meet their needs, your kids will turn up the volume on their obnoxious, needy, totally natural kid behavior, especially if you dare resume whatever you were focusing on. Now you’re just a spoke on the cycle of frustration.</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">I know this because I’ve rode that bicycle so many times. To survive happily I should just keep my head down and stick to taking the trash out and restocking toilet paper during nap time. The worse the chore, the happier you’ll be when your kids demand your attention again. Yet I still, perhaps foolishly, strive to be more than a mass of unwashed hair and wrinkly snot stained clothes dissipating within a black wormhole of toy trucks, sliced apples and baby talk. Some days it seems like I’m losing the battle. The attempts at personal enjoyment become less and less enjoyable because I know where we’re headed. I’m “chasing the dragon” of simple pleasures, but experience has taught me that after the first hit it’s all just itching and vomiting. You’re welcome for the heroin metaphor. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Once on vacation I asked my husband if I could just lay in the hammock alone for 20 minutes. <br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Don’t get me wrong, there are an abundance of beautiful moments, but those happen with my kids. I stop a hundred times a day (50 on bad days) to mentally pinch myself in disbelief that I get to soak up every moment with these walking, talking little miracles that grew in what my son fondly refers to as my "</span>huge<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> giant tummy." But when they’re sleeping or preoccupied I long for moments that aren’t about anybody but me. </span></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">A couple hours to write where I can just be in my head and not anticipating wrapping up at a moment’s notice. Paying attention to an entire movie without feeling guilty about the million other things I should be doing.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">A long candle lit bath where no one throws a rubber ducky at my head as they announce they’re coming in too. It’s not that you can’t do anything, you just can’t do it without the ever present </span>ticking<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> of your adorable human shaped time bombs. </span></span><br />
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morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260425339351532228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541629623808924045.post-49471548361091887102014-09-14T13:36:00.002-07:002014-11-23T13:44:23.305-08:00Facebook Birthday Posting Guidelines<div class="mvm mrm" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-right: 10px; margin-top: 10px;">
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<span style="background-color: white; letter-spacing: 0px;">Ah, the Facebook birthday message - the new way for family, friends, past co-workers and people who never talked to you in High School to make you feel special. As someone who recently had a birthday IRL and on FB, I’d like to share the following insights:</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; letter-spacing: 0px;"> 1. <b>When someone writes “happy birthday” and nothing else it is basically the Facebook birthday version of the middle finger</b>. </span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="background-color: white; letter-spacing: 0px;">It translates roughly to “I hardly know you, I have no fond memories with you, but Facebook told me it was your birthday so out of obligation I’m acknowledging you with minimal effort.” If you have any compassion throw a “beautiful” or “bro” at the end. If someone close to you writes “happy birthday,” no capitalization or anything, you need to reevaluate your friendship.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; letter-spacing: 0px;"> 2.<b> Don’t make a joke out of how impersonal the Facebook birthday message is.</b> If you truly feel awkward wishing the person a happy birthday because you know you wouldn’t say hi to them if you saw them at the grocery store, opt out of the birthday wish. This is an actual quote from my Facebook wall: “Sorry I don’t remember you, but happy birthday all the same Morgan!” Might I add, this person friend requested me. We went to the same High School but never spoke, we were different grades and our paths just never crossed. It’s not necessary to apologize for not remembering me or not being more than loose acquaintances, especially not on my birthday. We’re good, man.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; letter-spacing: 0px;">3. <b>Hey, person writing the same birthday message on everyone’s wall</b> - I see you, I know what you’re doing, I’m on to you. I’m not your enemy, I totally get it, you want to recognize people, you came up with one witty thing and it’s tough to come up with new material every time you hope someone has a special day. For awhile I was really into the birthday message “Hey, this is YOUR year!” I’m still into it. I’d be writing it on everyone’s wall every birthday, except for I have human decency and realize that’s not okay. It’s like regifting the same stinky candle over and over, in a public place where everyone can see you didn’t take the time to pick out a new candle. It makes me feel about as special as the birthday card from my dental office. It almost leaves me feeling dirty, like these are the same sheets from the last time you had a girl here.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; letter-spacing: 0px;"> 4. <b>You can judge the value of your last year of life entirely on the number of birthday Facebook messages you receive</b>. It’s not that you need a huge quantity of birthday messages, you just need more than last year. The premise is that if even one more person than last year sends you a birthday Facebook message it means you developed and/or maintained relationships better than you did the year before. If we want to get technical you probably need more than just one additional HBD based on Facebook’s growth, but I’m not here to make people feel bad. A win is a win. If you received less HBD’s this year look at it as an opportunity for growth. Did I post too many cat pictures last year? Were my attempts at humble brags too transparent? Did I routinely threaten to “cleanse” my friend list, then congratulate you over making the cut? Do I frequently post political memes that are offensive without being clever? </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; letter-spacing: 0px;"> 5. <b>Remember, birthday people are looking for a total count</b>. If you comment “Happy Birthday!!!” in the comments of someone else’s post it’s as effective as mumbling “happy birthday Morgan” under your breath in an underground cave thousands of miles away. Also, I’m appreciative of your birthday texts and Instagram wishes, but these don’t replace the Facebook birthday wish. How will people know my total worth as a human being if “X friends posted on Morgan’s timeline for her birthday” shows a deflated number?</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; letter-spacing: 0px;"> 6.<b> Real friends post pictures</b>. This requires a monumental amount of effort (by millennial standards) and is the only way to show true affection. It says a) we have been photographed having a good time together and b) I care about you enough to spend time going through photos and reminiscing about our good photographed times, and maybe I care about you so much I'm going to make a collage, whiten our teeth or test out different filters until I've created the ultimate representation of our friendship for the entire internet to see. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; letter-spacing: 0px;"> 7. <b>Yes, it’s a competition</b>. If your relationship involves any element of power struggle (and what relationship between 2 live people doesn’t?), it’s important to be brutally competitive with your spouse about who receives more birthday messages. The winner should berate the birthday loser close to the point of tears. On my husband’s birthday I threatened not to publicly wish him a happy birthday if he got more posts than I did on my last birthday. He did (wth), and I ended up writing on his wall anyway. Big mistake. He savagely neglected to write anything on my wall this year. Not so much as a no-caps “happy birthday.” It may have been because he worked 16 hours that day. I don’t think he realizes we’re now at war. Nonetheless, war it is, and from here on out I will show NO MERCY. No #MCM, no Anniversary posts, no mention in my annual thankful for my family Thanksgiving post, social media stonewalling has begun.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; letter-spacing: 0px;"> 8. <b>The day-after gratitude for the birthday messages is not necessary</b>. The midday gratitude is even less necessary. In fact, I find it off-putting. It’s always some form of “Wow, you guys really made my day special. Thanks for all the birthday wishes.” I interpret this as a sort of haughty. You just don’t need to publicly recognize people for recognizing you, especially when that recognition was prompted by Facebook and took 13 characters of effort. I know you’re just trying to be gracious but it comes off as an overestimation of how much people care. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; letter-spacing: 0px;">Hopefully you can take this valuable information and use it to let your second cousin once removed who you met at a wedding you went to in junior high know how truly special she is to you. Or you can totally ignore it because wishing people a happy birthday is pretty nice, no matter how you do it. </span></div>
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morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260425339351532228noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541629623808924045.post-44423133754779894432014-09-11T09:18:00.000-07:002014-11-23T13:33:18.963-08:00The Problem with My 28th Birthday<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> I turned 28 on Monday. I spent a lovely day with my kids and my darling mother who traveled all the way from civilization to see me and make my birthday special. She brought me sweet gifts she knew I’d love, helped me to celebrate, not feel too lonely, and showered my children with treats, toys and love like only a grandma can. I should just stop writing now, but that’s not my style, and neither is having perfectly enjoyable birthdays. Instead, my birthday is a cautionary tale about high expectations.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Most of the time I’m pretty content not being the most important person alive,</span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> and that’s good because having children means your specialness takes a distant back seat to everyone around you for a minimum of 18 years. You’re suddenly not special enough to take a 10 minute shower or have phone conversations without saying “can you please wait a minute, mama’s on the phone” 100 times every 3 minutes. Sacrifice is a badge of honor I wear proudly as a mother. But there is one day a year where my amygdala refuses to let me forget how special I’ve been made to believe I am. And this is where my rambling leads us to the heart of the problem with my 28th birthday.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> My mother did an amazing job of convincing me MY BIRTH was the most special event in the history of the world. Regardless of our means, when my birthday came, it seemed the whole universe stopped to rejoice. To me there wasn’t even a contest between my birthday and Christmas (sorry sweet baby Jesus). One year, by surprise, a limo picked me and my friends up on my birthday and drove me through a parade, where I sat on the roof and waved at people like a princess JUST BECAUSE I WAS BORN (as an adult I realize the parade was a lucky coincidence and the limo came from my mom’s work and was featured in the parade as advertising but don’t tell my inner child that - you’d be <i>almost</i> literally raining on her parade). One year we rented out the community pool. Do you know what it’s like to go to a pool every day with 200 insane screaming children, and have the power to force them to stay home and sweat out the heat because you were born 8 years ago? I grew up believing others were privileged to celebrate my existence. So it probably comes as no small surprise to you, dear reader, that my 28th birthday felt sort of disappointing. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Entitlement is one of the most poisonous conditions of the mind. Start believing that people, life, or the universe owe you anything and every inevitable let down is tainted with bitterness. Don’t get me wrong, we’re all super special, but life isn’t fair, the world owes us nothing, and no one throws parades for your birthday. A lifetime of conditioning has made it really hard for me to accept the latter. 364 days a year I will fish tiny boogers out of little noses and sing about Old McDonald and his chaotic farm, but on my birthday, damn it, I WANT A PARADE.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOMDZi7zgrgLTesLAtqUm1I8SpQIunQ-61Qax86pIUBXAu2zct8T0qfOavB2RF-SixGks4H9gHaRvx0qF-Z02ktyoa8D65yrOom5bOEtlmLs-epQnFZhhI8Gkwst7Fxyt0vzDQNuariJg/s1600/dinnerfrown.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOMDZi7zgrgLTesLAtqUm1I8SpQIunQ-61Qax86pIUBXAu2zct8T0qfOavB2RF-SixGks4H9gHaRvx0qF-Z02ktyoa8D65yrOom5bOEtlmLs-epQnFZhhI8Gkwst7Fxyt0vzDQNuariJg/s1600/dinnerfrown.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here I am dissatisfied with my Grand Cru and bubbles at my spectacular early-birthday dinner with my husband that I'm too bratty to even mention in this post.</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> I was bracing myself for a low key birthday. For starters, I have no friends in a 200 mile radius, so a party was out of the question. To say I rely heavily on my husband for adult interaction here in the city so nice they named it twice is an understatement. This year, much to my chagrin, my husband’s mistress (wine grapes) came to town on my birthday. I plan to write in more detail about what it means to be a harvest widow, but long story short, for my husband harvest means 16-20 hour work days seven days a week for up to 3 months. For me, harvest means an autumn heavy on solo parenting, light on companionship. Although the beginning of harvest is an exciting time in a lot of ways for a lot of people, for me, this year, harvest is the bitch my husband spent my birthday with. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> My birthday began when my husband accidentally woke the kids getting ready for his anticipated 12 hour workday. He made the coffee that morning, and I got a birthday kiss on his way out the door. Then I proceeded with my regular morning routine of caffeinating and trying to keep the house in one piece and the children alive. My visiting mother made it possible for me to take a long, uninterrupted shower and while I savored the hot water and the caffeine rushed through my veins I pulsated with gratitude for a beautiful life of simple pleasures. Once my children and I were fully clothed we walked with my mother downtown where more coffee was had, I ate basil gelato (weird but so good) in the morning because I could, and I eagerly showed my mom the little town I’ve been so charmed by. We spent an hour in the toy store drinking in the nostalgia of childhood play. We filled a bag with new toys and my soul with bliss as I reveled in the joy of my babies and the richness of a life built around my family. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLTPuiaxRORYGSQ6ir8MUAWkfXS5VRw3uVv8fAyZz7y5CWaKjfX6QpB7OunEDFhDSGeYGOZRiJtvsVVAaWSwzmVk0_mowJyKk4xtdjV8ObSX3Ypz51KjgkdIoNhikFVXuVKT9k5h29U5w/s1600/pond.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLTPuiaxRORYGSQ6ir8MUAWkfXS5VRw3uVv8fAyZz7y5CWaKjfX6QpB7OunEDFhDSGeYGOZRiJtvsVVAaWSwzmVk0_mowJyKk4xtdjV8ObSX3Ypz51KjgkdIoNhikFVXuVKT9k5h29U5w/s1600/pond.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You see a beautiful pond, I see an algae infested duck poop mine field.</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> After stopping at home for some lunch and a baby nap, we set out to visit the park, and to finally visit the duck pond and little aviary I’ve been raving to my mom about. By the time we waded through the scorching sun to the playground even the kids weren’t that interested in being there. Holden played a little bit out of obligation, and I sat on a bench merrily checking my Facebook birthday messages, then perusing the newsfeed. I came across an article highlighting some statistics about how having a family is great for a man’s career and horrible for a woman’s and instead of feeling grateful about my life I started to get really pissed about living in a world of inequality, drudging up my own negative experiences as a mother in the workplace, and then feeling deeply inadequate. Instead of being a courageous beacon of female competency and strength changing the system from within, I opted to stay at home and push a stroller around town buying lattes. As we walked away from the playground my mom asked if everything was okay, and I tried to describe my exasperation with the state of humanity without sounding like I wasn’t having a fun birthday, but I was beginning to crack. We rushed through the pond experience toward the aviary, dodging piles of duck poop on the way. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Logically I think superstition is stupid, but secretly there’s a part of me that can’t help but pay heed to omens. For example, the morning before Holden was conceived, a bird pooped on my shoulder, which is said to be good luck and sure was for me. If you see me standing beneath a bevy of pigeons with my arms held out wide, I’m probably trying to get pregnant. Back to my birthday - as my dark mood collided with an unpleasant dip in my caffeine to blood ratio, I tried valiantly to be feign more interest in the aviary birds than in how sweaty I felt and how unfair life is. Then I heard “Uh… I don’t think birds are supposed to keep their heads under water that long.” At a prolonged glance within the bird “sanctuary” I saw what my mom was referring to. A goose/pheasant bird creature sat on a log, its long beautiful neck hanging limply so that its head disappeared beneath the water. A few steps away its mate sat whimpering soft, tragic coos. My heart broke into a million pieces and then my inner spoiled brat used the pieces to spell out “what a horrible thing to have to look at ON MY BIRTHDAY.”</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Once I took a swig of that nasty birthday entitlement poison I spewed it all over the rest of my day. Poor me, changing a diaper on MY BIRTHDAY. Poor me, running the dishwasher on my birthday. You can imagine what my reaction was when my husband text me that there was no way he’d be home around 6:00 like he originally thought, and that he’d be lucky to be home by 10:00. The thought that I’d have to drive my screaming kids through the drive-thru to pick up my birthday takeout sent me into a whirlpool of self pity. My already exhausted 3 year old, per usual, sensed my despair and converted my vibes of negativity into temper tantrums. Throughout dinner he yelled things like “IT’S NOT YOUR BIRTHDAY, IT’S MY BIRTHDAY!” and demanded presents. Clearly I’ll have to work harder to convince him no one is truly special.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> By bath time I was just hoping I’d get through the day without throwing myself to the floor and wailing that this was the worst birthday ever. My guilt for being a petulant child when I was surrounded by my loving mother and (mostly) sweet, healthy children only served as sprinkles atop my chocolate/vanilla/despair swirl birthday cone. I managed to make it to 9:30 doing a poor job of pretending to be celebratory and when I finally laid down in bed I was just relieved it was all over. Fortunately by the time my poor husband attempted to wake me up to eat the beautiful chocolate carmel tart cake he brought me at 11:00, I was too deeply asleep to smash the cake in his face for abandoning me like I’d fantasized about while dealing with my screaming children hours earlier.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Don’t hype your birthday up too much. You’re probably pretty special, but the world stops for no one (except English royalty, and even then only for weddings). </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Don’t be an entitled brat, because the only person who gets hurt when you don’t get everything you feel entitled to is you. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Don’t ever forget to drink your afternoon coffee, especially on busy days, because without caffeine the sky will turn black and a world of torment will close in all around you.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> So a big shout out to everyone who wished me a happy birthday, please know that I had a wonderful first half of my birthday, and that I take full responsibility for spoiling the second half. Now that this piece is as long and self indulgent as my birthday was, we can put it all behind us and go on enjoying life. Cheers to a new year of learning, growing and complaining sardonically every step of the way.</span></div>
morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260425339351532228noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541629623808924045.post-15308517337382850312014-09-03T14:14:00.000-07:002014-11-23T13:33:49.006-08:00They can't all be good days.<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> I woke up in a bad mood today. Despite going to bed at 9:00 last night, I hardly slept. Sometime overnight my usually comfy (albeit crowded) bed morphed into a lumpy sac of potatoes and my pillow into lava rock. Co-sleeping with my 6’2” husband, 3 year old and 8 month old doesn’t help. The baby had one of those nights where she needed to breastfeed not several times a night, but actually sleep attached to me, preventing any movement on my part lest I move her and elicit a window rattling howl. This night was heavy on the tossing and turning for everyone (imagine our bed as a rock tumbler with 4 rocks ranging from 20 to 210 pounds), and even included some sudden Rottweiler-like jaw clamps mid-nursing from 2 needle-like baby teeth. The moment the ethereal morning sunshine peered through my curtains, I heard the birds sing and longed to stretch my arms over my head and savor the magic of being alive, but instead I buried my face in my pillow and thought “Ah, %&$!.” </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">No worries, I hate personal space anyway.</td></tr>
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<a name='more'></a><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> I thought maybe a strong cup of coffee would conquer my stiff neck, aching back and intense desire to lock my children in the dog kennel leaving me free to curl in a ball and sleep forever. Unfortunately after finishing one cup I only felt slightly less like murdering everything, so I made another. This was enough to give me the shakes and to capture the same gloomy, erratic emptiness most people need a 4 day amphetamine binge to experience. The teeny tiny probably anemic eternal optimist inside of me suggested I pour my heart into the care of my children and wait for the good vibes to start vibrating vigorously enough for me to feel them.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> Lately I’ve been really into the idea of doing Montessori pre-school at home. As a stay at home mother I’m really into concocting complex schemes of things I’ll do to make my life fulfilling and more Pottery Barn catalogue-esque. For weeks I’ve formulated an elaborate plan where I miraculously convert our box-packed storage room into a stimulating Montessori classroom and dedicate my life to educating my children, selflessly giving them each the gift of a bright future, brilliant mind and eternal happiness. The actual progress I’ve made includes reading one chapter of a Montessori book and trying not to bitch about Holden using way too much water when he watercolors. I thought “art time” this morning would be a good way to structure our day and alleviate my guilt for isolating my 3 year old at home (because according to my FB feed every other child on earth proudly started preschool yesterday) but all my OCD control-freak tendencies clashed with my son’s unstoppable drive to use a $%&* ton of water, smear black paint all over the other color palettes, and routinely run to the kitchen and beg dramatically for fruit snacks. To make a long story short, art time wasn’t especially therapeutic for anyone. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh85lEI-r0wItiGM8bq8lG77kaH1I8fXLqJEON6oHA-Xjwx8ooDxXAr3Ku4cB_AwHEDubxCAEP2Nm6XkKJTZI8eRKW36iCkQrnK1L_xvgFR6hX0C5C1udw11OvZJZG7104_C4lR7qSMEd8/s1600/IMG_1044.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh85lEI-r0wItiGM8bq8lG77kaH1I8fXLqJEON6oHA-Xjwx8ooDxXAr3Ku4cB_AwHEDubxCAEP2Nm6XkKJTZI8eRKW36iCkQrnK1L_xvgFR6hX0C5C1udw11OvZJZG7104_C4lR7qSMEd8/s1600/IMG_1044.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"IT'S RINSE, DAB, THEN CHOOSE A PAINT COLOR...DON'T YOU TAKE ANY PRIDE IN YOUR WORK!?" </td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> I decided it was best that we vacate the premises, and felt hopeful that some fresh air and exercise would remedy my condition. I put on my pants, one accessory and makeup. The accessory I chose was a scarf, because if the first scarf of autumn doesn't rocket you to planet euphoria, what will? It turns out a brisk walk to the park was exactly what I needed to focus on how cumbersome baby wearing while pushing a stroller is, how uncomfortable it is to be out of pajamas, and how out of shape I must be if the exertion required to walk 4 blocks felt like riding the tour de france with one leg. Once we arrived at the park I had the chance to compare myself to the thinner, more engaged and loving parents, and make a mental list of the endless menial tasks (groceries, laundry, dinner, dishes, bills etc) that are closing in on and suffocating me at all times. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"> On the walk home I tried really hard to change my self talk. We all have days where our inner Eeyore puts up more of a fight than others. Logically I was aware I really love my life and usually it doesn’t make me feel trapped in a claustrophobic fog of hopelessness and negativity. Surely it’s the night of poor sleep talking. Time for some self care. What would really make me feel better? My ultimate fantasy vividly flashed before my eyes, and I’ve chosen to share it with you, but in my next post because right now my children are screaming about hunger and other essential needs. So for now, we all have something to look forward to. </span></div>
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morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260425339351532228noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541629623808924045.post-19365354403757181792014-08-23T09:33:00.000-07:002014-11-23T13:34:14.421-08:00Cool Mom Resolutions<div style="font-family: Helvetica;">
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I was never meant to be a regular mom. If I even had kids, I would be different. I’d be cool, because it’s not healthy to make your whole identity about someone else, especially someone who eats their boogers in the checkout aisle at the grocery store. Flash forward 3 years and there I was, pregnant with my 2nd, unshowered wearing yoga pants tucked into my knock-off Uggs, pushing a stroller to Starbucks immersed in a conversation about home pureed baby food as my former self rolled over in her grave, careful not to smear Chanel mascara on her silk-lined coffin. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Really, I think I preserved my cool pretty well after my first was born. I went back to work after 12 weeks and was forced to presume the identity of someone who had a life beyond spit-up drenched machine-washables. Things started to deteriorate during my 2nd pregnancy, then got serious when we relocated to Walla Walla where I have the tremendous blessing of staying home with my kids and am relieved of the pressure to impress anyone. I know no one, and my only friends are my devastatingly cool nieces and sister-in-law who are forced to hang out with me at our weekly family night. I’ve lost myself in a wilderness of crusty sippy cups, slobbery baby kisses and the involuntary but perpetual question “why bother?” Why make the bed when we’re just going to sleep in it later? Why change out of pajamas when no one will see me anyway? Why wash my hair when it’s just going to stay in this ugly messy bun? If you’re feeling as clinically depressed as I am after reading that I think the answer is clear…we bother because not bothering means taking up residence right around the corner from a high-dose Zoloft prescription. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In an effort to restore some dignity and keep some dollars out of Pfizer’s pocket I’m publicly resolving to the following efforts:</span><br />
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<u><b><span style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px;">1. No more flip flops, no more Uggs.</span></b></u><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>This isn’t applicable while pregnant or with a newborn. I get the allure of shoes whose donning does not require hands. But, if you’re capable of bending over, or setting your baby down, which I now am, this is the easiest thing to fix. My out-of-the-house uniform of jeans and a v-neck tee is easily elevated from sad to “effortless chic” with actual shoes. A strappy sandal or a cool boot depending on the season can save us all from this easily avoidable pitfall. I love my flip flops, and I care deeply for my Fuggs (fake Uggs), but I love myself more. </span></div>
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<u><b><span style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px;">2. Less messy top knot.</span></b></u><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX5xrMZ0hCEOBRH0JbBgoyaVxGpt1dE5vJUUSdXTK21XB2X_CCZRyUQ-joq6kIsz_fCcuwwr2kk_kP6pYovN2-yCZIoWOjdSNUuyXhPxUmwTybObuDM2o3KzvwVvE03UOMJq_c1iR1dVA/s1600/IMG_9448.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX5xrMZ0hCEOBRH0JbBgoyaVxGpt1dE5vJUUSdXTK21XB2X_CCZRyUQ-joq6kIsz_fCcuwwr2kk_kP6pYovN2-yCZIoWOjdSNUuyXhPxUmwTybObuDM2o3KzvwVvE03UOMJq_c1iR1dVA/s1600/IMG_9448.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The perfect hairdo for that whole ballerina <br />
meets cranky old school mistress vibe.</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Can I just say how real the struggle is on this? I used to exclusively wear my hair down and would NEVER leave the house without washing and blowdrying first. Then the topknot became cool around the time that tiny humans were pulling my hair out in chunks and I thought I’d won the hairstyle lottery. Now that my hair has been in the same mostly spherical rat’s nest for the last year it’s become my Scarlet Letter of lazy mom-ness. Throughout the day the sphere of sadness migrates from the top center of my head to any number of derelict endpoints, usually suspended flaccidly just above my right ear. </span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Last week I got a haircut in desperate hopes that if I just had a hairstyle I would use my hair for good. Unfortunately, this aesthetic improvement has made no impact on the baby’s misguided belief that my hair is her trapeze to swing through life clinging to. Combine the real danger to my hair follicles with 90+ degree temperatures and I find myself searching for a hair tie like it’s a tourniquet for a severed limb. I try to release the mane when out in public but I’m far from free of the topknot. I just don’t have the answers here. Help, please.</span></div>
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<u><b>3. Pants, Accessories, Makeup. </b></u></span><u><b><br /></b></u><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It’s the kind of ironic tragedy worthy of vigorous tiny violin playing that I’ve become a horrific dresser. In high school I was runner up for Best Dressed (the competition was rigged…I was also runner up and the rightful winner of Most Likely to Choreograph a Music Video, but I’m not bitter or anything), then I went on to have a 7 year career in retail where I styled people for a living. I used to stand on the aisle with my label obsessed counterparts looking at the “mom” department disdainfully, scoffing out a string of statements that began “Ugh, I would so die…” </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In stark contrast, my current shopping bible has the following commandments: </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Thou shalt be machine washable. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Thou shalt have easy boob access (for nursing my baby, pervert). </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Thou shalt be comfortable and effortless to the degree that I will actually wear you and not just save you for a nonexistent special occasion. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Thou shalt not make me look fat. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;">It’s amazing how restricting this doctrine is, so I’m adopting a simple formula for daily style: P.A.M. Pants, accessories, makeup. Here’s a letter by letter breakdown of my aesthetics acronym because I know this rivals rocket science and surely requires further explanation.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEginBHRE6HiIQ4juGRB-DYpPlfyScFruI4YEk14TfjCc_GExmjKU-kffh4hswCqn_iEio9dS4GbilF_BCIIYvnaq8M4SeniVGuX3wkXsako7lYV__I5m9uchu10h2Y8XktzS5Ws2DoJ_Sk/s1600/IMG_0411.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEginBHRE6HiIQ4juGRB-DYpPlfyScFruI4YEk14TfjCc_GExmjKU-kffh4hswCqn_iEio9dS4GbilF_BCIIYvnaq8M4SeniVGuX3wkXsako7lYV__I5m9uchu10h2Y8XktzS5Ws2DoJ_Sk/s1600/IMG_0411.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Here you see my one pair of jeans barely making<br />
this wrinkly old t-shirt acceptable.</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><b>Pants</b> - Here’s the important part: <i><b>leggings are not pants, yoga pants are not pants</b></i> (though admittedly the pants portion of the name “yoga pants” is misleading). You must wear pants in public. I avoided real pants for a while because yoga pants and leggings after a baby didn’t remind me of the new form my lower torso had taken the same way my old jeans did. So I bought new jeans. Just one pair. I wear them almost daily (which is fine, google the Don’t Wash Your Jeans movement). They remind me that I am an adult human being, worthy of being seen in public looking like I’m capable of more than rolling out of bed and maybe brushing my teeth before corralling my offspring into my station wagon.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><b>Accessories</b> - If you put on just one accessory it can serve to persuade others that you probably didn’t sleep in whatever you’re wearing. <a href="http://shop.nordstrom.com/s/chewbeads-perry-teether-necklace/3633495?origin=keywordsearch-personalizedsort&contextualcategoryid=2375500&fashionColor=&resultback=873&cm_sp=personalizedsort-_-searchresults-_-1_3_C">This necklace</a> is amazing, it’s a teething necklace that has so far proven to be unbreakable. Though my Chewbeads necklace is essentially a baby toy, it is jewelry-like enough that once a guy working at Radio Shack complemented it. Thank you Radio Shack for the HDMI cable and the first male attention I’ve received from someone other than my husband in 4 years. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><b>Makeup</b> - If you don’t wear makeup that’s awesome. Of all the products invented and perpetuated by making women feel insecure, I find the cosmetic industry to be the most offensive, largest-scoped scam. I’m not a talented makeup artist, but the 5-minute application I am capable of makes me feel like a slightly better me. When I opt out of makeup for the day it’s usually because I’ve decided that day would be a waste of makeup. Really that’s an unfair judgment to pass on a day when you’re only just meeting it, so I’m going to put on my makeup to ready myself for a badass day, every day.</span></div>
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<u><b>4. Have a hobby.</b></u></span><u><b><br /></b></u><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I’m not naturally a “joiner.” Deep down inside there’s a part of me that gravitates toward the back of the bus, who wants to paint everything black, throw a middle finger to the world and ride off into the sunset satisfied in the certainty that no one understands me. Despite having embraced motherhood wholeheartedly, I can’t help but cringe at the idea of joining “stroller bootcamp” or going on the weekly walks with the Mom’s group. I know these are awesome community resources and I should be taking advantage of them, but I’m just not ready.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>During my rare opportunities for adult interaction I found myself dreading the question “So, what have you been up to?” which resulted in me desperately racking my brain for a response that didn’t reference housework, Facebook, or noteworthy diaper changes. I needed something, anything to be up to. Community mom stuff felt outside of my comfort zone, and what other adult activity outside of the home can you take 2 children to? I tried the drop-in childcare at the gym and eventually gave up after one woman in particular seemed to dislike my baby (WTF). Learning to play guitar or do pottery didn't really seem feasible as home activities at this point in the game.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Finally I downloaded iBooks so I could read books on my phone while nursing the baby, and I’ve started writing (if you hadn’t noticed). Yes, I’ve elected reading and writing as my hobbies. I'm also proficient in addition and subtraction but I wouldn’t want to overextend myself. Fundamental as my “hobbies” may be, I can’t say enough about the positive effect engaging my mind in something has on my ability to feel like a whole human being.</span></div>
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<u><b><span style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px;">5. Don’t be afraid of the world.</span></b></u><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wine tasting with kids: the ultimate %$&# you to people<br />
trying to enjoy a child free day.</td></tr>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As a new mom I was terrified of going to restaurants or anywhere my baby might cry and/or annoy someone. I hid in my house where I could nurse my baby without accidentally making an uptight weirdo uncomfortable, have unfettered access to my baby gear, and contain any meltdowns without embarrassing myself. I felt like a leper. That was all wrong. Even parents deserve the liberty to enjoy the occasional public jaunt in broad daylight. It seems like when I can keep my cool my kids follow suit and most of our outings are uneventful in a good way. The days where it feels like too much effort to make it out of the house are often the days we most need to escape together. We go to coffee, we walk to the library, we meet my husband for lunch. I escape isolation and get a chance to show off my pants, one accessory and makeup.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">My Cool Mom Resolutions probably won’t rocket me to the Beyonce mom-cool of my dreams, but as long as they keep me out of the Depths of Mom Despair I’ll keep trying. Keep trying is really what it all comes down to. How do you stay cool or at least motivated to keep trying?</span></div>
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morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260425339351532228noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541629623808924045.post-88978147040215433212014-08-18T10:21:00.001-07:002014-11-23T13:34:35.824-08:00Mom Guilt in the Age of Technology - Defending My iPhone<span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> In the ocean of opinions swimming through the internet, there have been waves of voices condemning parents for their smartphone use. I’m stepping forward as the mom staring at her iPhone in public while my kid pulls at my arm for attention. Yeah, I read your Facebook status proposing my kids should be taken away and given to someone who cares about them. </span></span><br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">When I’m in charge, the punishment for the righteous, childless tech-judging masses will be 24 hours locked in a room with a toddler. We’ll see how long it takes you to reach for your phone, or at least pass it to the kid so you are finally free to curl up in a ball in the corner and pray for </span>nap time<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">. Until then, let’s give smartphone touting parents a break.</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I get where you’re coming from, and I wouldn’t dare rant against “hands free,” engaged parenting. Here are the facts - numerous studies have shown that children who watch less than 2 or 3 hours of TV a day fare better academically than those who watch more. Media use, including the myriad of programming with ambitious names like “Baby Genius” or “Baby Einstein,” has shown to be in no way linked to positive learning outcomes. In fact, baby peers who watched no TV tested better on the tests scientists make up to measure infant intelligence, like how long your baby looks at a new picture, etc. In Western culture, infants and young children who get more face time (different than FaceTime), who are spoken to regularly, who interact with live human beings, they are the ones who appear to start life with a couple more points on the scoreboard. This sort of positive interaction has been linked to parents with more education and higher socioeconomic status, but it’s believed upping the QT with your cutie is a way to overcome statistical disadvantages that may be outside of your control. </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>There has been less research into what effect parental media use has on children. <span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><a href="http://www.npr.org/blogs/health/2014/04/21/304196338/for-the-childrens-sake-put-down-that-smartphone">Here's an article</a> </span></span>about a psychologist who in her observation (not scientific study), perceived that the kids of phone-engrossed parents in a fast food restaurant acted out.<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> She references a father of 3 staring at his phone while his kids get crazy. What if lazy tech dad wasn’t </span><i style="letter-spacing: 0px;">causing</i><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> his 3 children to act out by being preoccupied with his phone, but perhaps had been spending the entire day with those 3 rowdy kids and needed to check out for a minute and eat a burger (or maybe the kids were hungry for actual nutrients and poisoned by the toxic garbage served at the fast food place). This chicken/egg dilemma is a problem in most psych case studies because we’re pretty complex creatures. Anyway, to return to my point, there isn’t a lot of scientific evidence on this subject, but nonetheless plenty of common sense evidence suggests that ignoring your kids to look at your phone all day isn’t going to win you parent of the year. I get it.</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> Turning my children into mushy brained, overweight, lazy extensions of my couch is not among my goals, nor do I want to avoid interacting with them. Like the majority of parents, my children are my whole world and I would throw myself into a fire for them. There are a lot of other things I’d do for them, including engineering several configurations of train tracks a day, only to watch them be almost immediately thrown all over the room. I love my kids so much I regularly bounce one on my knee while I pee because sometimes babies just don’t want to be set down. I love my baby girl so much I get up sometimes 6 times a night to feed her, change her diaper, rock her, sing to her, and stare at her beautiful face, just like I did for her brother. I love my son so much that I still smile when he sings the ONE AND ONLY song he’s been singing for the last year. I would and do listen, usually intently, to the never-ending soundtrack of ridiculously imaginative and detailed scenarios he invents about cheeky trains getting into trouble (we're SUPER into Thomas the Train FYI). 12 hours a day childish jabbering and precious baby coos fill my ears with noise, my heart with joy, and melt my mind into goo.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">Occasionally, I enjoy a shower which entails setting my baby on the bathroom floor surrounded by toys as I make silly noises, frantically shampoo and </span>desperately<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> hope for enough time to shave my second leg. During this special time I often turn the TV on for my son to keep my multitasking as low key as possible.</span></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"> </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;">In a moment of yuppy indulgence a few years back, we bought our iPad to prepare for our first 6 hour flight with an infant. Now w</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px;">hen I’m putting the baby down for naps, my 3 year old watches Thomas youtube videos on the iPad. We regularly use FaceTime to stay connected to the grandparents we can’t always make the 6 hour flight to. At restaurants, my husband and I quickly hand our phones over to our children after opening their favorite apps. A few times a week, I just can’t make it through the afternoon without turning on a movie, and sitting down on the couch to stare at my phone while my offspring mellow out with the welcome help of Pixar. At the park, while my kids happily enjoy fresh air and physical exercise, my phone will momentarily block my view of the 30th run down the slide.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; letter-spacing: 0px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="font-family: Helvetica;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">What on my phone is so much more interesting than my children, you ask? Well, I compulsively check Facebook, where I’m sometimes inspired by a good parenting article, often outraged by the news, seeking out the </span>occasional<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> debate to remind myself what grown up thoughts feel like, or let’s be real, a good chunk of the time I’m just smiling idiotically at trite moronic e-cards about how important drinking wine is. Frequently I ignore my children to choose Instagram filters for the thousands of photos I’ve taken of them. In an effort to better myself, I downloaded Anna Karenina on iBooks and have been reading maybe 20 phone-sized pages a day for the better part of this summer (only 2,000 to go). Atop my shameful confession list is the time I downloaded the Kim Kardashian Hollywood app and played compulsively for a couple weeks. I’m sorry, but jet-setting to celebrity appearances in designer cartoon outfits is a welcome break from wiping other people’s bottoms and settling exclusively for bits of watermelon left on the rind by your 3 year old. Do I think any of these mostly </span>embarrassing<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"> indulgences are more important or interesting than my children? NOT AT ALL. Is this an especially strong source of mom guilt? Yes. Do I think I would be better off throwing my iPhone in the garbage? I’m not so sure.</span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I grew up mostly in the 90’s, though I won’t subject you to any lists of Saved by the Bell references to prove it. To me this was the era of the cordless phone, and a good part of my magical and enriching childhood was spent watching my mother pace around the house during 3 hour marathon phone calls. My mother-in-law recalls spending the whole of her summers immersed in conversation with other moms at the neighborhood pool while the kids played. Before that, Betty Draper types day-drank and chain-smoked while their kids ran around in the street. My point is parents have been ignoring their children for generations. It’s simply not possible to be animated and engaging 12-15 hours a day, not for me, not for you, not even for my charming, energetic children. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="letter-spacing: 0px; white-space: pre;"> </span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;">I’ve happily chosen to sacrifice most of my identity as an adult (my career, having a hair-do, wearing heels or anything silk, leaving the house past 7:00pm, etc.) for my children. Right now my connection to the world outside the walls of this love-filled home is my iPhone. I admit to letting my Apple worshipping ways seep into the lives of my kiddos but I think it’s logical to ask whether early technology use will be advantageous to the next generation in ways we don’t realize now. Being touch screen savvy might be more important in 20 years than we currently understand. Maybe these are the rambling justifications of an addict. What’s important to me now is having happy, healthy children and with a grateful heart I can say I do. If as a parent you can accomplish the same thing with less distraction, more power to you and please share your wisdom.</span><span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My parenting philosophy is rooted in the belief that my kids are people just like me, who deserve respect, and whose thoughts, feelings, words, behavior, concerns and accomplishments are worthy of my attention. I believe our actions leave a stronger impression than our words and try my best to be cognizant of what I’m role modeling. I’m pretty good at role modeling imperfection, and have come to incorporate the awareness and acceptance of this inevitability into my parenting. Through accepting that I can’t stimulate my child’s intellect 100% in each waking moment I’ve been able to permit myself some checked out time without diving into a whirlpool of mom guilt, which helps me to be more available physically and emotionally to my kids more often.</span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Life seems to consistently present me with the search for balance and the task of embracing moderation. Technology is certainly an area to which that applies. I want my family to have a masterful command of eye contact, but I’m tired of villainizing my lightweight, convenient connection to infant rash identification, weather reports and e-mail threads with my grandma. The precious years with our young children are far too short, but the days are loooonnng; long enough to look at Pinterest on a park bench while your kid swings. </span></div>
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<a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jennifer-hicks/dear-mom-on-the-iphone-youre-doing-fine_b_5648388.html" target="_blank">This post</a> inspired me to jot down my thoughts on the subject, and does a much better job defending smart phone moms than I do.</div>
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morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260425339351532228noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541629623808924045.post-87574035344624385952012-03-21T21:32:00.002-07:002014-11-23T13:28:28.736-08:001st Birthday in Pictures<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Imagine what a horrible memory Holden's 1st Birthday would have been if we actually consumed all of the beer and 4 bottles of wine we bought. </div>
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Here you see my decorating skills transform my tiny, semi-crappy apartment into balloonimation party land. Disclaimer: Holden and the dog insist we keep that junky box there because it's basically their clubhouse.</div>
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Adorable picture of Holden conversing with his great grandpa.</div>
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Considering his first cupcake.</div>
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Indulging in his first cupcake.</div>
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Sharing first cupcake with mommy. <3</div>
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Satisfied by first cupcake.</div>
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Sugar'd up and ready to party.</div>
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Operation 1st Birthday was a success. Holden has so many toys now that lately the most common thing to upset him is an inability to decide what to play with. A handful of VIPs bearing gifts attended the partay and didn't even complain about having to sit on the hard wood floor. Holden was in a fantastic mood all day, and no one cried, not even me. (Not until the next day anyway, when I looked through all 1458 pictures on my phone, spanning early pregnancy to first cupcake experience.) Despite the overpriced shi-shi cupcakes, abundant supply of alcohol, excessive snacks, and plethora of toys, the highlight for Holden definitely turned out to be balloons. My party-planning strategy (developed the night before around 7:30 pm), was that this will be the last children's birthday party we ever throw that will mainly be for adults. I embraced that concept, but still turned down a suggestion to buy an assortment of Mexican beer and serve nachos and salsa. I'm no Martha Stewart, still, something about a Fiesta-themed 1st birthday party felt a tequila shot away from being way tacky. And now, prepare to wonder if I'm covered in neon orange and yellow tape, because I'm about to get reflective up in here...<br />
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The day I had Holden I was convinced I was feeling the best feeling in the entire world. I couldn't fathom life getting any better than it was the first moment I held him. The truth is, he is more of a miracle every day, and every day I love him more. He's evolved from blob to fun, interactive, intelligent human being! He walks, side steps, runs, climbs and sometimes stands up, then bends down and looks behind him through his legs like a weirdo. He uses signs for water, milk, more, all done, bye, and book. He says mama, dada, book, ball, doggy, hi, bye bye, and mumbles I love you. He gently pets the dog, runs around the house, hides blocks in my shoes, swiffers the floors, flips through books as he points at pictures and attempts words. He kisses, he hugs, he laughs, and he has a fake cry when he just wants his way. He'll eat absolutely anything he can feed himself, he brushes his own teeth and tries to brush mine too. He hides under blankets then springs up to surprise you as he erupts in fits of giggles. He dances and bobs his head to music. He claps when he does something he knows is good and points at things he's not supposed to get into, shakes his head and says "no!" He gives me a reason to get up every morning, to hurry home from work, to be a better person. He's made me learn to live in and cherish every moment because everything goes by too fast, and time is too precious to waste wishing for anything different. He's taught me to respect my mother in a new way, and that nothing is more important than family. Because of him I can understand, appreciate, and give unconditional love. Looking back my world without him seems so small and empty. Yes, in this year I've seen more exhaustion, frustration, and bodily fluids than I thought I was capable of surviving, but I feel more alive and whole than I've ever been. Thank you Holden for being you and for the best year so far!morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260425339351532228noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541629623808924045.post-23062896991465552732012-03-04T11:16:00.002-08:002014-11-23T13:35:12.749-08:00Planning my 1st Baby's 1st Birthday I do not excel in girly etiquette-requiring activities. I frequently invent elaborate stories/lies about why the thank you card (which I definitely never wrote) didn't arrive. I make a list of people I want to send Holiday cards to sometime in October, but haven't mailed one in at least 3 years. I show up to birthdays with a six pack I picked up at a convenient store on my way as a present. I was a bridesmaid for the first time last year and I didn't even bring a wedding gift (really sorry about that Tasha and Sean....who needs a new toaster oven when you have a lifetime of happiness though, am I right? But seriously, I'm deeply ashamed, that's terrible.) In highschool my ex-boyfriend's new girlfriend baked him cookies every football game and wore ribbons in her hair with his jersey number painted on in puff paint. If I ever baked cookies they were inevitably every shape except round and unintentionally crunchy, and I was more likely to be inhaling puff paint than using it for crafts. My point is that I suck at this stuff.<br />
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I'm just not a gracious hostess. And since I was put in charge of keeping a small human alive last March, I feel more entitled than ever to opting out of all the things people not raised by wolves are supposed to do. But my baby is turning 1 next Sunday and suddenly I feel it's of the utmost importance to create a birthday memory that doesn't involve a 5th of liquor wrapped in newspaper and duct tape.<br />
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How do babies like to celebrate anyway? Holden's favorite pastimes seem to be getting into the garbage, breaking into cabinets and spreading the contents all over the floor, throwing his food at the dog and pulling my hair. Am I supposed to create a theme based on that? How do you decorate a Schizophrenic Hobo themed cake? Or am I supposed to drop a gang of Jacksons at Party City in exchange for a cart load of pirate or Mickey Mouse or car themed paraphernalia to show all of the adults at the party how much I love my child who will be too busy pulling his socks off every time I put them back on to notice that the napkins and plates match the banner and the balloons?</div>
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And then there's creating a guest list. I know I've had a year and 9 months to find some friends with babies, and believe me, I've put in work. See exhibit A: the handful of messages in my Facebook outbox that read something like "Hey I know we haven't talked since junior high but I've always liked you or at least never hated you and I notice from your photos that you have a kid too so, like, do you want to hang out sometime and be mom friends?" So far this strategy has been productive approximately 0% of the time. I do have one friend with a baby, and 2-3 friends who I know don't have a strong aversion to being around my baby, then there's my immediate family...wa-lah, guest list! </div>
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So here's a rough idea of what the party is going to be like: cram the baby's 7 supporters into our cluttered 10'x10' living room, invite the people who don't get 1 of the 3 available furniture-seats to sit on the floor, put the baby in the middle, give him a piece of cake, and pretty much let things roll from there. Does this image make me feel like an inadequate mother? Absolutely. Do I have anything else up my sleeve? No. </div>
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I haven't even mustered the time/energy combo to send out e-vites. Of course initially I dreamed of creating adorable commemorative customized invitations far in advance, but after spending a nightmarish 30 minutes neglecting my screaming child to surf the web for an invite that didn't make me gag with cutesy-ness I thought "I'll get back to this later." (Screaming solely because I was sitting at the computer, FYI, not pain or danger screams lest you doubt my competency in parenting fundamentals.) Now we're a week away from my theme-less party and all I've done is sent a "hey don't make plans on the 11th" text to 2 people. </div>
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Ah, the familiar self-loathing fueled Procrastination Cycle. The more mom guilt momentum I gain in this party planning or lack thereof, the more difficult it becomes to get down to business. How can I plan a party while so deeply immersed in self pity for my condition as a 50 hour week working, craft-inept, genetically ungracious failure of a mother? </div>
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Self-deprecation aside, I'm very excited to gather a small group of people who are important to me and who love Holden so that we can revel in his ever-increasing "maturity" and make ridiculously inflated statements about how advanced he is. As every mother for all time who has ever celebrated a child's 1st birthday has said: I can't believe it's been a year! Wow, time flies.<br />
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Look forward to a post covering 1st birthday party shenanigans, but expect it to be up to 3 months late and for the pictures to be blurry and off-center in a non-artsy way. </div>
morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260425339351532228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541629623808924045.post-66646495754529179302012-02-19T11:43:00.000-08:002014-11-23T13:35:53.483-08:00Might as well face it, you're addicted to baby love.If you thought it was cool when I called my baby an asshole a couple posts back, this post probably isn't for you.<br />
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You know the feeling you get when you're falling in love? You feel so good that it actually makes you feel nauseous most of the day. "Walking on clouds" is a nice way to say you feel like you just ate 3 Taco Bell menu items while on an upside down roller coaster. You could puke anytime, but there's something magical about it. The object of your affection becomes your only topic of conversation. You're telling anyone who will listen how your new boyfriend folds his socks, then you laugh maniacally like it's the funniest, most interesting story ever told.<br />
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Or maybe you haven't been in love but you have made some poor decisions in your life (or at least watched an Intervention marathon). When you're in the midst of your addictive cycle nothing matters but getting your fix. If you even manage to make it to work it's only to get more money to pour into your addiction. Where there used to be a life brimming with hobbies, interests, meaningful relationships and ambition, there is now only your addiction.<br />
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The thing about falling in love, or being seriously addicted to drugs is that part of you is fully aware that your behavior is irrational. And so it is with loving your child. A few times a day a voice of reason breaks through the murky cloud of obsession fogging up your mind and says "What has this baby done for me lately?" (For me, this voice is Janet Jackson, obviously.) This baby scratches, bites, throws up on me, pees on me, refuses to wipe his own butt, throws the food I prepare for him all over the kitchen, wakes me up at 6:00am by hitting my face and then rasberry-ing my eye socket, and more. No matter how bad he treats me I keep coming back for more. I am OBSESSED with him. If my theme song is "What Have You Done For Me Lately?" then Holden's is "Why You So Obsessed With Me?" (I promise that is the last pop song reference in this post.)<br />
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I've recently returned to work after 5 weeks off. It's been a bit of a transition, but not so bad. The hardest part was the anticipation. After a bit of struggle the first week staying home I got in a real lady-of-relative-leisure groove and couldn't bear the thought of leaving my sweet angel baby. I have a career that I love, but it requires me to leave my house for about 10 hours 5 times each week. While on leave I convinced myself this would no longer be possible. I needed access to my fix throughout the day. I spent most days brainstorming internet businesses and other work-at-home mom schemes. Wanting to leave a great job you love, this is how irrational having a baby makes you. You know the term "rock bottom?" Keep reading to hear about mine...<br />
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There's a strip club pretty much across the street from our home (gotta love Portland) and during my desperate search for a career with flexible hours an insane thought crossed my mind. "Hmmm, I guess I could start exercising and maybe get drunk enough to just be a stripper however many nights it takes to pay my rent, then my days would be free to spend at home obsessing over my baby." If you know me IRL you know how laughably absurd the idea of me being a stripper is. In addition to the morals/dignity territory that would make this a difficult profession, I'm a terrible faker. If someone annoys me I can't even sustain eye contact, let alone naked-body-lap-dance-contact. Plus looking and/or dancing sexy isn't exactly my forte. Nowadays "looking hot" means taking the time to put on mascara. When would I possibly find time to get fake nails, wax every inch of my body, spray tan, put a weave in, buy about 10 times the amount of makeup I currently own, and roll around in enough glitter to detract from my c-section scar? My point is that loving a baby has made me SO IRRATIONAL that for about 24 hours I was seriously considering embarking upon a seedy career as Melody the Night Mistress, or some other dorky contrived alias. (Disclaimer: I'm exaggerating for entertainment value, Mom.)<br />
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Having a baby makes you crazy in every way imaginable. I spend hours a day wishing I could have 20 minutes to myself. I'm often near tears of frustration by the time I finally get the baby down for a nap. Then what do I do? I go downstairs and flip through pictures of him on my phone, wishing he'd wake up so I can hold him and play with him and smell his sweet baby smell.<br />
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Don't let this picture fool you, he has not mastered utensil usage.</div>
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Just like an addict I love the rituals surrounding the addiction. What I think of as chores: bathtime, bedtime, meals where more food ends up on the floor and in my hair than in the baby's mouth; those are also the most precious times. I complain about having to do it, but I won't go out with my friends for dinner even one night because I can't bear to miss it. Babies, can't live with them, can't live without them.<br />
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Step 1 is admitting you have a problem. Hello world, my name is Morgan and I'm ADDICTED to my baby. I'm sorry about all the events I've missed, the phone calls I've ignored, the times you've been talking and I haven't been listening. I'm sorry about talking for 2 hours about how over-developed my 11 month old's linguistic skills are because he points to the ball in his favorite book and says "baahh!" I'm sorry for telling detailed stories about baby poop. I'm sorry for bragging, for taking the time to review baby products on the internet, and for saying things like "they really call it a bundle of joy for a reason." I'm sorry for having a picture of my baby as my Facebook picture. I didn't plan to be this person, but I have a condition. I get high on baby love, and I don't plan on coming down anytime soon.<br />
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A hit of the good stuff.</div>
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morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260425339351532228noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541629623808924045.post-40202211007663732782012-02-01T12:47:00.000-08:002012-02-01T13:51:46.200-08:005 Ninja Skills Moms NeedI'm sure there are some parents who aren't ninjas. Maybe people with nannies. I didn't start out a ninja, but necessity has molded me into one. Let me tell you, Chuck Norris has got nothin' on moms. Here are some of my ninja skills and their most common applications.<br />
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<b>1. Patience, young grasshopper.</b><br />
"Redirecting" is one of those parenting buzz words. If your baby is doing something he shouldn't be, gently <i>redirect </i>the behavior. This means picking him up from the trash can/dog food bowl/electrical outlet/edge of the stairwell and engaging him in an acceptable non-life-threatening activity <b><i>one million times a day</i></b>. Non-life-threatening activities are to a baby what watching a golf tournament on TV is to me, or a baby-less person's version of listening to a couple rave about their little one's potty-training "journey". <i>BORING! </i>So you redirect again. And again. And again patiently.<br />
You think you're patient? Try spending 90 minutes putting a baby down for a half hour nap. Not for the faint of heart. This is what nap time entails at my house: Read a story, feed baby, rock to sleep with a lullaby. Attempt to set baby down in crib. As soon as you begin to lower the baby down cue blood-curdling screams. Pick baby up, calm him down, try again. Let him scream a little longer. Eventually you get him to go down with only mild wailing, gently rub his back until the wail fades to a moan, and the moan becomes peaceful sleep breathing. Remember all the while you need to be calm and loving despite the hurricane of frustration, anger, guilt, sadness, and need-for-a-strong-drink-ness wildly swirling inside you. Then try to leave the room.<br />
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<b>2. Stealth Mode.</b><br />
If you are not a ninja your baby will never sleep. After using ninja patience to get the child to sleep, one may want to capitalize on the upcoming 30-75 minutes of "you time", but to do so, one must get out of the baby's room. In my house I'm pretty sure the floorboards in the doorway of Holden's bedroom are made of rusty tin because those mother-Fers are some creaky sons of Bs. You know in Mission Impossible when Tom Cruise is lowered into the room with all the lasers? That's pretty much how I have to exit the bedroom. I backflip into the air, then silently land across the doorway into a somersault I do down the hallway. If I fail to execute this perfectly, the baby will wake up EVERY TIME I approach his doorway. He goes from snoring with his back toward me to upright and screaming in a nanosecond. If I am a ninja, the baby is a samurai.<br />
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<b>3. Super-human strength.</b><br />
Babies expect you to carry them around everywhere. Whenever you think you've developed the necessary muscle to carry your dense sack of potatoes offspring, they gain another pound and get wigglier.<br />
Also, there's giving birth. (I had a c-section so deduct 10 ninja points.) Ninjas <i>wish</i> they could do something as badass as childbirth.<br />
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<b>4. Multitasking.</b><br />
If you think twirling nunchucks while roundhouse kicking 5 guys in the face takes focus and agility, try doing anything while caring for an infant. Take any basic task you do every day and tag <b>keep baby from killing itself</b><i style="font-weight: bold;"> </i>to the end of it. Here's an example: Today I need to brush my teeth and <b>keep baby from killing itself.</b> Instantly in addition to brushing my teeth I'm holding a cabinet shut with one foot, keeping the toilet bowl closed with my spare hand, using my elbow to hold the door open so the baby doesn't slam his fingers in it again and with a mouth full of toothpaste I'm singing a silly song that I've just made up in the moment in attempts to pacify the baby who's getting pissed that I'm a roadblock to so many life-threatening-situations.<br />
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<b>5. Ability to handle solitude... it's a lonely life.</b><br />
You don't see ninjas out at clubs surrounded by friends while guys line up hoping to buy them a drink. Well, the same is typically true of moms. I've been invited to <b>one </b>party since I became pregnant, and it was my birthday. I wasn't always a social outcast. In fact I believe at one time I may have been notoriously fun. Now the few friends who stuck around no longer bother asking me to do anything because they know I'm at home working on my ninja craft. Wax on, wax off.morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260425339351532228noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541629623808924045.post-23917556263455903002012-02-01T09:18:00.000-08:002012-02-01T09:18:26.911-08:00Baby's 1st Beach TripMonday Jake (baby daddy and long-time fiance) had the day off. I had very low expectations for this day because it was raining and we're low on cash funds, which usually means we lay around the house watching re-run hockey games and eating top ramen. But something magical happened, we woke up and contrary to the previous day's forecast IT WAS NOT RAINING! I jumped on the opportunity, as all true Oregonians are conditioned to do, and suggested we have some sort of great outdoors type experience. What if we drove to the beach? My suggestion was full of trepidation, as I braced myself for my idea to be shot down. Jake paused and then hit me back with a "sure, let's do it." Woah! We were going to do something spontaneous!!! Just like young single people do!!! I jumped into action, stocking the diaper bag with cold-weather gear, portable snacks, and extra baby wipes. Within half an hour we were off.<br />
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I wish I had an entertaining story to tell about some misadventure, but it was just a downright pleasant day. Here are some pictures to prove it:<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://distilleryimage7.instagram.com/074ff4dc4cf311e1abb01231381b65e3_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://distilleryimage7.instagram.com/074ff4dc4cf311e1abb01231381b65e3_7.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I call this photo Ambiguous Sexual Preference Girl Stands in the Dunes</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://distilleryimage10.instagram.com/5328af024cf311e1abb01231381b65e3_7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://distilleryimage10.instagram.com/5328af024cf311e1abb01231381b65e3_7.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Jake and I looked at this photo and realized how much our lives have changed. We used to be photographed looking like the sexy well-dressed life of the party. Here we look like we rode one of those oil waves on shore with some broken sand dollars. We may not be much to look at, but at least we have eachother.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Well, my clever ferret-like child has figured out how to get into our wine cabinet so I better get to work jimmy rigging a child-safety device. </div>morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260425339351532228noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541629623808924045.post-83304616534693506472012-01-28T13:30:00.000-08:002012-01-28T15:09:01.744-08:005 Weeks of Leave (or To the Edge of Sanity and Back)I'm currently on maternity leave. 10 months after my baby was born. Here I'll tell you a little about how I got here, and what it's been like.<br />
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</div><div> 3 months before my baby was due I had to leave work on disability. I wasn't technically on bed-rest, but I couldn't drive, and I lived in Beaverton so obviously no one was going to come hang out with me. For 3 months I literally did nothing but eat icecream, talk to my dog, and freak the fuck out because somehow I would have to get this human out of my body and take care of it for the rest of my life. After said baby was removed from my stomach I spent 12 weeks the way I imagine most new mothers do: crying tears of joy, then crying tears of despair for no reason, trying on pre-maternity clothes and crying some more when they didn't fit, getting puked on, and the remaining 20 hours a day were spent staring at my sleeping baby in bewilderment. Even though I had 8 remaining weeks of leave, after 6 months away I was READY to go back in June.<br />
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</div><div> For a few months I was Supermom. I was kicking butt at work and wiping butt at home without skipping a beat. <br />
<a name='more'></a>Then our daycare situation changed from in-home to in someone else's home. We embraced the difficult adjustment best we could. A month later, our sweet little baby was asked not to come back to daycare. Apparently his separation anxiety was so severe he spent the entirety of his 10 hour days there screaming at the top of his lungs. No napping, no eating, just screaming, with an occasional break to spit his food out at the daycare provider. This felt like a major blow to my Supermom-ing. It was around this time I decided I needed to take more of my leave. In Oregon you can take the unpaid leave with job protection within 12 months of delivery. It was a surprisingly difficult decision because I really love my job and it bothers me to miss out on the action, but I figured I'd always regret not spending as much time as possible watching my little guy grow into a bigger guy. And this way I could stall a little longer on figuring out day care, maybe until he was old enough not to act like a psychopath.</div><div><br />
</div><div> So here I am, on leave! I've just completed week 4 of 5 and I thought I'd do a recap of what it's been like so far.</div><div><br />
</div><div><b>Week 1 - Pressure Cooker</b></div><div> I'd spent the months leading up to my leave wary of taking a break, but after surviving The Holidays, I was grateful for a change of pace. But slowing down suddenly is not an easy thing to do! In the beginning I was manic. In the mornings I was so excited to have time with my child that my eyes welled up with tears of joy every time I looked at him. Then I'd set in frantically composing to-do lists of everything I needed to accomplish. The 30-ish items ranged from as basic as "take dog to vet" to ambitious as "teach baby sign language." I was feeling the pressure! I mean this could be the last time I ever have a 5 week vacation until I retire! In the first three days I organized the basement and every closet, deep cleaned every corner of the house, and got the baby sleeping in his crib for the first time ever (see future post: Mistakes I've Already Made as a Parent). Did I stop to take pride in my accomplishments? No! Still so much to do! Then my body committed mutiny and I was sick with a fever for the first time in probably 5 years. If you think being sick is fun, you should try it with a crawling infant. If you don't have an infant handy, try locking yourself in your room with a pack of rabid Meerkats and see how relaxing that is. That's how we brought in Week 2.</div><div><br />
</div><div><b>Week 2 - Get me out of here!</b></div><div> Contrary to my utter certainty that death was imminent, I did fully recover from my cold. My symptoms were gone, but some animosity remained. I'm not proud of this, but I was convinced my 10 month old was an asshole. My life had become madness. I spent all day compulsively cleaning a house that my baby spent all day messing up. Books didn't rest long on bookshelves, cords couldn't remain plugged in, unsuspecting leaves were ripped off plants, no drawers remained closed (except to trap little fingers). Not a hair on my head was safe from his grasp, no shirt was stain-free after a meal, my arms and shoulders were covered in scratch and bite marks. I cannot stress enough the dead-on accuracy of the comparison between this baby and a wild animal. This guy was NUTS. I tried to find reprieve by taking the baby out of the house, and that was even worse. He acted the same, but in public, so then not only was I annoyed, I was embarrassed because of how annoyed everyone around us must have been. Every opportunity I had to speak with an adult I blew it talking about what a jerk my baby was. I started to dislike both of us. I <i>needed</i> to get back to work. All I wanted was to wear 5 inch heels with something dry clean only and talk in a grown-up voice. I considered ending my leave immediately. Then I had a breakthrough.</div><div><br />
</div><div><b>Week 3 - Baby-Proofing</b></div><div> I decided to give escaping the house one last try, packed up my wild animal baby and headed to Target. I strolled through the aisles while my offspring screamed and tried to knock everything off the shelves. We made it out with a baby gate and cabinet locks, and those precious items changed everything. Instead of spending the day dashing from one life-threatening scenario to another, intervening barely in time, the beast was contained and we could finally just enjoy each other's company. Bliss! Also, in Holden's defense I think he was doing some serious teething in the week prior, which explained his "better not try to take me out in public" attitude. </div><div><br />
</div><div><b>Week 4 - Sabotage</b></div><div> At the beginning of this week I'd found a perfect balance where I was appreciating every moment with my little monster, in a rhythm with my OCD style cleaning, and managing to get out and have fun a few times a week. Balance? Me? Of course just being happy isn't a viable lifestyle option for me, so to avoid reveling in contentedness I've started panicking about the approaching end to it all. My choice activity to exasperate this is googling daycare options while sobbing quietly. I also like to creepily stand in the doorway of whatever room Jake and the baby are in and silently watch them interact as tears roll down my cheeks. In the sport of crying that's referred to as distance-crying. Somehow the part of my brain connected to my tear ducts believes going back to work is akin to my family being deported or some other insurmountable, terminal separation. The more I think "I'm running out of time, I need to just enjoy this," the more difficult it becomes to enjoy it. It's like being up at 3am knowing you need to fall asleep because the clock is ticking, but as you lose time your concern about how little sleep you'll get grows, making sleep more and more elusive. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Week 5 starts tomorrow and hopefully I can title it "Making Peace." While taking a break from writing this very blog entry the baby took his 1st steps. Insert like five million exclamation points. Being present for that was a major motivation in being away from work, and I'm so grateful I was there (along with dad and even grandpa on Face-time). Maybe now I'll be a baby step closer to being okay with things the way they are <i>and </i>the way they will be. </div></div>morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260425339351532228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541629623808924045.post-70899615126603237582012-01-27T09:04:00.000-08:002012-01-28T15:02:36.551-08:00Baby Style Tip - Wacky SocksI'm not trying to be pretentious here. My baby is no Mason Dash Disick <a href="http://officialkourtneyk.celebuzz.com/2011/11/mommy-blog-masons-style/#more-139801" target="_blank">(here Kourtney Kardashian talks about her son's evolving style)</a>. If he's even wearing pants, I typically only put him in stretchy sweat pants. Jeans are adorable, but hardly any baby jeans have stretch in them. If you were crawling on your hands and knees everywhere would you want to do it in tight, stiff jeans? Baby mobility is frustrating enough. We save jeans for occasions where we really want people to think we're better and fancier than they are.<br />
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So if comfort and practicality are your top priorities when dressing your baby, how do you incorporate fashion without getting too cutesy? Answer - color! And my favorite colorful accessory - wacky socks!<br />
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Wacky socks have been hot for men for awhile now. Rarely does the word "wacky" rear its head in fashion. We could say brightly colored patterned socks, but let's face it, they're wacky! Don't make the mistake of thinking all wacky things are fashionable. Don't be the wacky-tie-guy at your place of business. If you're brave and educated in fashion, do occasionally be wacky-pants-guy. But anyone can be wacky-socks-guy! <a href="http://www.paulsmith.co.uk/shop/paul-smith-mens-socks-440/category.html" target="_blank">Paul Smith</a> is a fave.<br />
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You can only see a little peek of them here, but these <a href="http://www.bodenusa.com/en-US/Clearance/Boys-Accessories/28081-STR/Boys-Stripe-Pack-7-Pack-Socks.html" target="_blank">Mini Boden</a> stripe socks are awesome. There's a color combo to compliment every outfit. These are bright and fun without being ridiculous. I'm a big Boden fan - their children's line encompasses most of what I look for in baby clothes - colorful, fun, comfortable, without looking like Mother Goose vomited cuteness on every shirt front. In the above photo Holden is wearing Baby Gap PJ pants with his reversible Patagonia jacket.<br />
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I couldn't be more obsessed with these colorful <a href="http://shop.nordstrom.com/s/trumpette-pee-wee-socks-gift-set-infant/3004213?origin=keywordsearch&resultback=2198" target="_blank">Trumpette argyle socks</a>! I love pairing them with stripes or other patterned clothes to mix prints. Here you can see he's wearing the blue, with another pair of Baby Gap PJ pants, and his Northface fleece.<br />
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As a fashionista I couldn't be more opposed to dressing babies in sport-affiliated gear. But as an avid lifelong Blazer Believer there's just no way around it. So if you <i>must</i> dress your baby in your team's jersey please accessorize! Not a lot of color here but the print adds the right amount of whimsy and style to what could otherwise be a trailer-baby outfit.<br />
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Once Holden is a walker we'll be very excited to do some serious baby shoe shopping, but until then docs say it's best for the development of little feet if they stay bare feet. I love baby socks because even high end they won't break the bank, but high or low they can make the oufit. If you can keep track of them.<i>...</i>keeping track of 2 matching baby socks could be a post in itself.morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260425339351532228noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541629623808924045.post-56481466293025480522012-01-26T11:05:00.001-08:002014-11-23T13:36:13.716-08:004 Things Moms Need to StopMoms are bitches. I'm guilty of it too. A lot of people are bitches, but moms have their own brand of bitchiness that they dish out like sandwich triangles at snack time. Here are some things we Moms need to consider stopping:<br />
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<b>1-Using "Sorry, it's the mom in me!" as an excuse to tell other people what to do. </b></div>
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I'm sure you've heard this. It may be your own mother after verifying that your seatbelt is buckled even though your 32. Maybe it's a co-worker telling you your lunch isn't very nutritious. It could be a waitress who tucks the tag into the back of your shirt. Your friend suggesting a one-drink minimum on your date tonight. Me, nagging my significant other for wearing his shoes in the house. I'm not a child, I don't need you trying to impose your well-intentioned will on me because X (insert your child's age) years and 9 months ago you drank a bottle of jagermeister at a Jon Butler concert (or however other people get pregnant).</div>
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<b>2-Judging single people. (See last post - what a bitch move on my part!) </b></div>
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Here's what happens when you have a baby: Suddenly you are overcome by a tsunami wave of pure oxytocin-infused dopamine-firing mind-blowing everlasting core-shaking word-hyphenating love. Like you've never known before. This little thing destroyed the shape of your belly button, robbed you of your precious after-work cocktail, will keep you awake, puke, poop, and urinate on you, and take every spare dime you have basically for the rest of your life, and you LOVE it. As a person feeling this insane overpowering feeling, instead of saying "well I've clearly gone batshit crazy," you say "people who don't have this in their life are batshit crazy but <i>I'm finally complete!"</i> Our minds can't comprehend that maybe we're engaged in an irrational hormone fueled love affair with a life-sucking alien, so automatically our truth is that the baby-less are shallow empty shells bar-hopping their way to a lonely death. </div>
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Before I was a mom I thought this attitude stemmed from a jealousy for the freedom non-moms have. Are we jealous? Hell yeah! But the jealousy doesn't come until a few months after giving birth. As a new mom, I sincerely felt sorry for people without babies. Now I feel sorry for myself too. Just try to find a balance in pitying all people.</div>
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<b>3-Saying "you don't know what love is until you've had a baby." Related: "if anything ever happened to my child, <i>you have no idea</i>..." </b></div>
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Admittedly, I've said both of these things. Huddle in and listen close moms...no one gives a shit! Don't go around telling people who've had moms and boyfriends and husbands and grandparents and childhood pets that they don't know what love is. Maybe they don't know the magic that is loving a child. I don't know what it's like to sail on a yacht in the Cayman Islands while someone serves me champagne and hors d'oeuvres and some beezy telling me I have no idea what it's like isn't doing anything for her likability. Let others be happy with the role love has played in their lives and you be happy with the role it's playing in yours. For my thoughts on trying to explain to people how unimaginably devastating it would be to lose a child see the episode of Family Guy where Brian discovers he has a son and repeats "You have no idea...No, you have NO IDEA" over and over. </div>
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<b>4-Scaring people about to have babies.</b></div>
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This might stem from jealousy, I'm not sure. While pregnant I sold trendy name brand clothing. Maybe some of you remember the JBrand Houlihan. $200+ pants with cargo pockets on the thighs. Every celebrity was photographed in them and every aspiring fashionista in Portland was on the prowl for them.<i> </i>While ringing one customer up for a pair I gushed "I just <i>love</i> these pants. If I wasn't pregnant I'd totally buy a pair!" She responds "Why don't you buy them now to wear later...Oh... Yeah. Because you'll probably never be the same size again." If that'd been my last day on the job I would have explained "No, lady, because they'll have been out of style for 4 months by the time I give birth." Instead I smiled and handed her bag to her. Her attitude was not uncommon. Nearly <i>every time</i> I told a mother I was pregnant, the conversation started with "congratulations!" and ended with a foreboding "<i style="font-weight: bold;">your body will never be the same." </i></div>
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A lot of bodies aren't ever the same, but it's okay. It's worth it. Don't tell someone who doesn't yet understand how trivial the firmness of their belly button hole is that they're destroying their body and their youth. Pregnancy is stressful enough! And here's the thing no one told me, a lot of bodies are the same! I weigh less now than before I had my baby (thank you breastfeeding!). I made it out sans stretch marks, I eat like a 400 pound man, never work out, and am 2 sizes smaller. I understand I've hit the genetic jackpot here, but I'm also genetically predisposed to high cholesterol and heart disease so take it easy on the hate mail. I only share this to emphasize what bitches all the doom and gloom moms are who had me standing in the bathroom mirror naked-crying at my weird giant stretch body. When discussing pregnancy, save phrases like "your life is over" "say goodbye to going out" and "your body will never be the same" for promiscuous teenagers, thank you. </div>
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Being a mother is beautiful. Don't let being a bitch detract from that!</div>
morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260425339351532228noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4541629623808924045.post-43302355795170462352012-01-25T01:12:00.000-08:002014-11-23T13:36:46.661-08:00thanks for making me feel old instagram<div style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;">
I finally put instagram on my phone today. Until now, I shit you not, I have been wondering how so many of my friends either afford fancy cameras or have massive amounts of time to spend photoshopping their photos into uber-hip, grainy, forcibly candid masterpieces. People without babies- this is what I think of you: I think you spend all of your time sitting at home photoshopping pictures you and your girlfriends took in the bathroom mirror of Blitz. Does photoshop even exist anymore? Is photoshop the atari of digital photo editing? Now that I know what instagram is, and that it’s appropriately named for its instantaneous nature, I wonder what the hell babyless people are filling their time with if it’s not photoshop.</div>
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I’m straining to remember what I did before I was pregnant. Ouch. Okay, here it is, let me create the visual for you… <br />
<a name='more'></a>Me, poured over my couch. Still in work clothes, one 5 inch totally impractical heel by the door, the other kicked across the room, remote in hand. Gaze fixed on the kitchen, attempting to teleport the bottle of wine from the counter to the coffee table. A thought enters my mind “Thank God I don’t have kids…I don’t have the energy to microwave a burrito, let alone keep a small human alive.” Somehow I muster the energy to respond to 3 text messages (because I actually had friends then) “can’t go out tonight, broke and tired. wine instead.” Then, 4 hours of VH1 smut, at least a bottle of wine, and sleep. End scene. Throw in a wild all-nighter a couple times a week, a day or two dedicated to personal maintenance - tan, nails, hair, maybe exercise and wa-la! Life without kids. </div>
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I assume this is how every person without a baby is spending their life. And you disgust me. Because I look back and am disgusted. Why wasn’t I on Rosetta Stone learning French!? Teaching myself to play the sitar? Why wasn’t I backpacking in Guatemala? Why wasn’t I dragon boat racing?? I had <em style="margin-top: 0px !important; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;">so much</em> free time, I had <em style="outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;">so much </em>disposable income, I had <em style="outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;">nothing</em> to lose, and I had <em style="margin-bottom: 0px !important; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;">no idea. </em>I no longer have time to sleep, to drink bottles of wine, to engage in multiple social media platforms… I’m hardly managing to cut my toenails on a regular basis. Now when I learn an individual is child-free my auto response is an urgent and guttural yell “GO TO VEGAS! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE!?”</div>
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I love my baby very much, and even if I’d embraced a more fulfilling lifestyle pre-baby, next to motherhood, anything else seems as vacuous as 5 hours a day photoshopping. This is my message to the kid-less…I hope I’m wrong about you, that you aren’t like I was, that you are carpe-dieming your heart out. But one day I hope you know the beautiful joy and despair of never sleeping 8 consecutive hours, and that you too taste the bittersweet serenity in no longer being cool enough to know what the fuck instagram is. </div>
morganhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02260425339351532228noreply@blogger.com3