It’s 7:30 am as I write this (though I know realistically I won’t get this published until this afternoon sometime. A girl can dream though.) We’ve been up since the ripe hour of 5:30 am. Ella is rolling around on the floor because APPARENTLY she thinks she’s supposed to MOVE.

Honestly. The nerve.

And I’m stopping to put the baby down for a nap. Already. It’s been a long morning. (See why it’ll take me until the afternoon to get this up.)

You might have noticed I took the weekend off.

There were a lot of reasons for this but the most prevalent one was that I needed a break. And my family needed a break.

What we needed a break from was the constant connectedness of the internet. And I LURRRVE the Internets. I love twitter. Facebook. My blog. All the OTHER blogs I read. The news. Shopping. Ravelry. Shoot sometimes I just like to LOOK at the internet. Just because it’s the INTERNET and it’s so full of stuff. And things. But I needed a break. I needed to feel creative and not tied to something plugged in (except my sewing machine). I needed to stare at my husband and *ahem* other things with my husband. Cause, whaddya know, I actually LIKE the guy.

Hm. Madness.

Also I feel a lot of silly internal pressure to turn out a noteworthy or thought provoking or witty post, and frankly, I just don’t have in in me right now.

I feel sometimes when I get wrapped up in the Internet (it’s like a proper noun around here) I can do just that, get WRAPPED up in it. The Man already works on a computer for a living. And I blog (thought obviously NOT for any kind of living). And that means that there is usually pretty much constantly a macbook plugged in and on and open at ALL TIMES in this house. And while I love the Internet and the blog I think it’s important to have balance, so this weekend I balanced my life. I spent time with the Man and the Baby and some time with the Big Kids (though they were with their dad). And I sewed. Oh the gloriousness of it all. It was one of my favorite weekends in a long time and I barely got out of my pj pants.

I made this:

And this:

And this:

(it’s a headband. I realize you can’t tell that)

Many of you know that years ago I went back to school. I went back to school so I could ultimately go back to work because quite frankly, my family needed the income. I believe though, firmly, that I was BUILT to stay at home (which is NOT to say I don’t get tired, crabby, frustrated and downright maniacal sometimes.). I love to bake and sew and craft. I love to take care of people (sometimes to my own detriment). I love watching my kids grow. I love it all. I love a clean house and a cooked meal and a happy husband. And my idea of a great feminist movement would be one where women got to do WHAT THEY WANTED even if that meant being a mom and wife their entire life an nothing else (clearly I was born in the wrong decade). It’s not for everyone, but it is for me. Anyway at some point that really wasn’t realistic anymore. Cause kids cost like Money. A lot of it. So I went back out into the grown up (mostly) non-diapered world.  And while I absolutely loathed enjoyed school  and I love being a nurse, somewhere along the way I packed away the creative pieces of myself so that I could give to those around me whatever little bit I had left at the end of the day. (Moms {and dads}, can I get an amen?) When we bought this house last year I was absolutely INSISTENT that there be space in the space for the Man’s drums/guitars/mics/turntable/other musical stuff I don’t understand:

I did this for a couple of reasons.

1. His musical gifts are one of the things I find hawt really intriguing about him.

2. When he played his first record after the turntable was set up in The Man Space he actually looked like he was about to cry. That is how much he loves this stuff. And I love him enough to make sure he has access to it at all times. Despite my raging desire to turn the room into a flowery shabby chic-y showcase of antiques. He deserves to have his space.

3. I think the everyone needs an outlet. Whatever yours is, if it requires a space, you should have one. Even if it’s a corner.

 

Which brings me to my next point. Today I will once again not be posting anything noteworthy or thought provoking because what I will be doing is working on my own space. I will create a corner for myself where there is now nothing but some diet snapple, a three-fourths built replica of Neuschawnstein and a painting of a frog.

It’s a sad space.

But tomorrow it will be mine.

 

Stay tuned.

(And note: It’s only 8:30)

 

 

blogging , crafts , sew something sunday , sewing

Oh so many things I want to say…. SO very very many things that I want to share with you my loyal readers.

I want to tell you about our trip to Super Duper Ginormous Baby Superstore to look for a bigger car seat for Hulk SMASH Buddha Baby. Mostly because I want to tell you stories about all the unnecessary baby paraphernalia they have there. Oh and about the lady feeding her 2 month old baby food by the case because he has acid reflux. She was fun.

I want to tell you about how Milo has taken to eating cat litter. And crap.

OH and how my self esteem has been so boosted lately by The 15 Year Old’s new found hobby of  making fun of my hair/clothes/oakland booty.

About Ella eating. Food! Avocado! Broccoli! Toast!

Oh and about the Old School Cloth Diapering (switched the pockets or prefolds and covers! Oh my)

Oh aaaaand about the things I’m making:

An afghan.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Floor quilt for Ella

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dresses! Pillowcase style.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Also a crocheted frog. Headbands. A skirt. Another Henry The Hoot. The pattern for Henry. Bunnies for Easter.

And… Myself crazy.

That last one most of all.

 

I have a bit of a problem. It’s call Overachieveritis. That’s an inflammation of the Overachiever lobe of your brain. It’s right near the WHAT THE HELL DID I GET MYSELF INTO section and just below the Holy Crap I STILL Don’t Know What’s For Dinner area.  The apparent cure for Overachieveritis is to not do so many things.

Because I have been afflicted with Overachieveritis and it’s in it’s chronic phase I consequently don’t have time to tell you about any of the aforementioned things. Only time to rock in the corner and suck my thumb.

 

And hopefully make a pillowcase dress. Oh and the 20 minutes it took to write this.

 

See you tomorrow beauties.

 

 

blogging , crafts , crochet , family time , OVERACHIEVERITIS , What the HELL did I get myself into?

htm hell

It’s like html only not exactly.

It’s how I feel about decoding the code. Writing the code. Reading the code. Code in general.

I’ve been working on the blog off and on and on and on for like ever. OK it’s only been a couple of weeks but it feels like seven lifetimes. Why you ask? Well because I just apparently can’t do things the simple way. For example: I could have simply just found a template (or wordpress theme if you prefer that term) and added my things in the sidebar, added my own header image and bingo, done. But no. No. No. NO. I can’t do that. Because that would just make sense.

So what I had to do is find a basic template that essentially had like two things I liked and then completely change it to meet my needs. For the seasoned blogger, like my friend Emily over at Joyful Abode, this wouldn’t present much of a problem but for me, the baby blogger, HTML might as well be Catonese. In fact i think this is css which tells you how little I know. In any case, before I found the template I like I had to go through no less than 173 templates that I didn’t like. Good. God. I need an intervention.

The Man thinks I might be losing my mind. I’m afraid he’s right. Bless his heart. Finally I had to walk away from the Blog entirely because the Blog had superseded my need for water, food and sleep (that is a bit of an exaggeration… I did sleep. Some.). The baby was permanently glued to my lap and because she had actual NEEDS that NEED to be met, I met them, so that I didn’t feel like the worst mother in history, while holding my own pee for three hours.

I congratulated myself for two hours after finally figuring out how to change the font size of my nav bar. From 11pt to 14pt. Which is hardly even noticeable. It took me like 30 minutes. Seriously. I’m that good. (That’s not good. Like at all.) It would have taken the Man 2 minutes. Never mind that I could have just had him do it for me. But noooo. I have to do it the hard way.

Every. Mother. Flippin. Time.

(Plus he’s in the middle of some kind of PayPal crisis at work. And when I say crisis I mean CRISIS. The equivalent of a Paypal Code Blue. )

Anyway, in light of my most sincere desire to never do things the easy way (for example, I’m making refried beans from scratch, despite the fact that no one has ever complained about having the canned ones) I am STILL trying to add the sidebar, what presently can only be seen on the about me page, to the entire format.

So far it’s been: at the end of the page, at the top of the page between the posts, on top of the posts and at one point, actually BEHIND the posts. I don’t how I even did that last one. This code writing thing is amazing. One line, properly (or in my case improperly) placed and you got a sidebar (OR you’ve got a big ol jumbled ass mess of crap). The Man does this All. Day. Long. Secretly I wish I understood it because I actually like it. Put this line here and something appears over here. I feel like I’ve found the secret decoder ring of the internet.

While you wait for the sidebar, I apologize. I took a break to make cookies.

 

See:

I mean I’m not EATING them but you know, the kids should feel like their mother hasn’t been swallowed by her laptop.

 

Back to the blog ya’ll.

j

blogging

on sisterhood


Sisters.

I have one.

This post isn’t about her.

She’s brilliant, gorgeous, athletic, funny. I waited 14 years for her. She gets her own post. This isn’t it. This post is about a different kind of sisterhood.

Before I go into it let me tell you this, I was one of *those* girls in high school. To all the girls I went to high school (or junior high school) with, I apologize. I wasn’t the boyfriend stealer. I wasn’t a snob. I wasn’t a bitch (Actually, I probably was a bitch. Feel free to tell me if that was the case. I’m doubly sorry for that.) I just didn’t have girlfriends. I started out having girlfriends but as girls sometimes do we betrayed each other. We acted snarky. Talked badly of one another. Lost touch. And ultimately stopped talking at all.

So I eventually just hung out with the guys. All guys (Jordan, I’m talking to you if you’re reading). And I had fun. Guys aren’t catty or bitchy. They don’t care what you’re wearing to the prom. You can make them a pie and they are just happy you made them a pie. They don’t try to make a pie better than you or curse you out for trying to outdo their pie. I went on ‘dates’ with guys. To concerts with guys. To pizza with guys. I studied with guys. Rode around (and got stuck) in a 4 WD pick up with guys. Listened to Metallica (and some George Strait and Joni Mitchell, we were a varied group) with guys. Watched Monty Python with guys. I think you get what I’m saying. I hung out with guys. The memories are good. Very good.

But I missed girls.

Here’s the thing about girls: We are in constant competition with each other. Who has the smarter kid. Who is skinnier, prettier, smarter, funnier. Who has the better (or worse) husband. Who has the bigger or nicer house or car. Who. Is. Better.

I don’t get it.

And here’s what I know, when you meet a girl that you don’t have to feel like you’re in competition with, hang on to her.

Recently someone I only barely knew in junior high commented on my blog post about secrets. It said this:

Joni, I’m a lurker on your blog and, well, just read this: http://stefdwe.blogspot.com/2011/01/my-blogging-inspiration-aka-im-so.html.
So I went there. Cause what am I, some kind of jerk? And what did I find? A blog post about me. Yep me.
Little ol’ insignificant imperfect me.
I hope you read it because it drives what I am about to say home.
When I read it I was awed. Just awed. Here is this sister, beautiful, intelligent with a beautiful family and an enviable life and she is talking about how I make her feel inadequate. How she actually AVOIDED reading my blog because of this feeling. (Read her blog by the way, it’s really good.)
Which is, you see, why I had to write this.
Because when I look at the Pioneer Woman I feel inadequate. She is a blogger extraordinaire. She cooks. She’s witty. She homeschools. She leads an interesting life. She wrote a BOOK for godsake.
But she’s my sister too.
And here’s the truth: I’m not inadequate. And neither is Stefanie. And neither is anyone else reading this or any other blog.
We have the same struggles. We share the same hopes and fears. We want the same things for our families, our children.
We are sisters.
And we should act that way. We shouldn’t have to blog about it because it should just be.
We should help each other through nursing school.
These sisters were there when I thought I couldn’t write one more care plan.
They should stand by each other through whatever.
These sisters? I’ve know them since I was a punky little kid. My wedding wouldn’t have been like it was without them (like I wouldn’t have had flowers because I couldn’t cut 575 stems alone, 8 and a half months pregnant.)
They should fix your hair when you get married.
Like this sister.
And they should be there when you have your babies.
This sister rubbed my back for at least 6 hours. The one up there ^. She took all the pictures.
These are a few of my sisters.
And I treasure them.
Is solace anywhere more comforting than in the arms of a sister. ~Alice Walker
blogging , sisterhood

Today was La Leche League. This is a meeting that happens once monthly where breastfeeding moms (and not breastfeeding moms) get together and talk about… you guessed it, breastfeeding. Well really besides that what happens is ladies can feed their babies without anyone looking at them like they are weird. It’s nice. I wish the whole world was one big perpetual LLL meeting.

Also we had a nice lunch afterward. Good news. I can still speak a language other than baby.

Here are Ella and I. Please note: Wearing 15 year old daughters scarf.

She is trying to eat my face. Don’t worry I fed her before she got too much of it in her mouth.

Next item of business:

Hubs asked me about my blog the other day. He doesn’t usually so this was big news.

It went like this:

Hub: Have you been updating your blog?

Me: No.

Hub: Why not?

Me: Because I don’t have anything interesting to say.

Hub: You’re always talking about happy stuff, you should talk about some hard stuff too.

Me: Good idea. What?

Hub: I don’t know. Something hard. (BTW this is my version of what he said. He sounds far more intelligent than that.)

So here I am… I used to keep a pretty busy blog about weight loss.

But then I got skinny. Who wants to read about that?

Guess what? I’m not skinny anymore.

More on this later.

Also it looks like pretty soon I’m going to start guest blogging for Attachment Parenting International. That’ll be fun.

News to follow.

Also… Don’t tell my husband but staying at home has me a little freaked out. (Just kidding. He already knows.) Anyway. I’ve been an “at home” mom before. I love to cook and clean and craft and raise kids. Seriously. I was born to be domestic. My mom told me when my first darling baby was born that my the time she was 6 weeks old I wouldn’t be able to get to work fast enough. Wrong. So so wrong. I cried EVERY DAY for months taking her to the nanny. I wanted to be home. As a mom it’s all I’ve ever wanted. Suddenly though I feel like I have nothing vital to add to any conversation. Who wants to hear about homebirth? Breastfeeding? Co-sleeping? (Someone besides you Staci. You put up with me. Lord bless ya.) Also I’m afraid to run out of money. It’s gonna happen eventually. And I’m afraid I’m a lousy mother. What if my kids hate me? I’m afraid I’ll forget how to be a nurse. Oh my gosh, what if can never ever start an IV again? Then I’m afraid when I do go back to work no one will want to hire me because I forgot how to be a nurse. They can TELL. Oh and I’m afraid I’ll forget how to have an adult conversation. Goo. Gah. What? You don’t speak baby?! (I don’t speak baby either. As far as I know babies speak the same language we do, they just don’t know how to make words yet.) And I’m afraid of the day I have to go back to work. NO. I don’t want a stranger taking care of my baby. It’s a lot of afraid in case you didn’t notice. Mostly I’m thankful to be at home. And scared for the day that isn’t the reality anymore.

Those are the things maybe some mommy bloggers think about but don’t say. My (Former. I think I have to call her former now that her brother and I aren’t married anymore) sister in law, and one of my favorite people in the history of people, used to say, “I just wish we could all wear t-shirts that said the things we don’t want people to know. Things like ‘ I yell at my kids’. ‘I eat too much fast food/chocolate/meat.’ ‘I don’t know the last time I exercised.’ ‘My husband and I fight. All the time.” ‘I don’t recycle.”

She’s a smart one that lady.

It’s true though. No one wants to say they’re fat, mad, miserable, broke, too in debt, grouchy, have PMS, dislike their husbands, want to yell at their children. And if you talk about these things are you interesting? Honest? A jerk? I’m not sure.

I do know one thing though. You’re about as interesting as you think you are.

blogging , LLL , weight loss