She Likes Purple

The next 24 hours

We left LA and drove up through Malibu, stopping for breakfast and mimosas. As we hit Highway 1, the ocean came clearly into view and it's about as breathtaking as you imagine the ocean to be. We can all agree there is just something about the Southern California ocean, can't we?

We had a delightful waiter at breakfast, the type who wants to hear where you're from, who you are, where you're going. The type who winked at us as we headed out. He just gave me this feeling it was going to be a great day, the kind of day I'd constantly conjure up when I think of the good ones.

After breakfast, we were determined to forget about the clock and stop at a bookstore even though we were well behind schedule. And so we did. I even saw one of my company's books facing out on a shelf -- that's always a nice pat on the back.

One thing I loved so much about this trip was our mutual desire to do away with a schedule, an agenda, a sense of time at all. We allowed our wants to guide us and that was the most healing part of the whole trip. We wound through the state, watching the temperature dip and climb, depending on where we were, listening to the 500 Days of Summer soundtrack. It was such a great time, and I loved every minute of it.

We stopped in Santa Barbara, and spent a nice chunk of time in a resale book shop near the main drag in town. We walked a little more, not for very long, before grabbing necklaces and pastries (one of the best chocolate croissants I've ever tasted) for the road. We were headed to Carmel, where we stayed the night, and it took us most of the afternoon and evening to get there.

Kristie turned to me as it was getting dark and said, "God, I hope Carmel doesn't suck."

Oh, Internet! It didn't suck!

We stayed at the Green Lantern Inn and got a fat upgrade to a newly renovated, two-queen-bed guest room. We threw our bags on the beds and ran to dinner before the entire sleepy town shut down. We were so delirious and punchy, I thought the waiter was going to deny us wine. He didn't, you'll be glad to hear. We bought a half bottle of white and then another half bottle of white later, when we decided to hell with being responsible, THE KIDS WERE AT HOME. The waiter gently reminded us it would have been cheaper to just buy one whole bottle of wine, but whatever, that's so OBVIOUS and NOT DUMB and we like to keep everyone on their toes.

{Panoramic view of our room at the Green Lantern Inn.}

At dinner, Kristie and I were laughing so hard, the next table kept glaring at us. Don't you love when you laugh so hard, you couldn't care less how many people look on annoyingly? We couldn't end the night THERE, obviously, so we found the smallest little bar, called Sade's, and ordered two of the tastiest and most expensive Long Island Iced Teas I've ever had. Much pricier and tastier than the 25-cent versions I used to chug in college. No, really, The Hall in College Station used to have Quarter Drink Night and they'd make and sell 25-cent Long Island Iced Teas. Those were some interesting nights, let me tell you. Before we found Sade's, we were ambling around town, looking for an open spot, and I thought a hotel bar would be a nice place to stop in. As we walked into the hall of the hotel, I turned to Kristie and said, "It's a rehearsal dinner! We just walked into a rehearsal dinner!" Hey, hotel in Carmel, a sign on the door might have prevented that. I would have hated for my rehearsal dinner to be interrupted by two loud, tipsy bloggers. Although my rehearsal dinner was at In N Out Burger, so I don't know if we would have noticed. 

Kristie will want me to tell you now about the practically naked man we saw after drinks, and I don't know how to really give this story justice -- you should have just come with us -- but as we were walking back to our Inn, we walked by a small little cottage with the lights on and a man looking out his front door. This caught my attention because, well, was he looking for travelers to snatch up and hold hostage or was he just checking the weather? I THOUGHT IT IMPORTANT TO FIGURE OUT. So when I looked closer, I realized he was in his underwear. His bright blue thong underwear. He shut the door and continued to just stroll around his house, leisurely, still barely dressed, still in plain sight. And I could not scurry past his door fast enough but NOT KRISTIE, OH NO. She took this, "We're traveling! We're open to adventures!" to mean, we should photograph every inappropriate, half-naked person we stumbled upon. I know you're now expecting me to share a picture with you but, sadly, we don't have one. Because I pushed Kristie quickly down the street so the thong-wearing stranger wouldn't SEE us STARING at him and come out and STAB us or something. You're welcome, Kristie.

The next morning, we got up and visited the beach and both decided we have to go back, one day, with other people we love in tow. We have to go back to one of the most beautiful places on earth.

We headed out of town far too soon, but we'll be back, Carmel. Get those Long Island Iced Teas ready. And tell the naked men to shut their blinds.

{The food post comes tomorrow; it includes a lot of bacon and champagne.}

Quick trip to LA

When I decided to go to The Blathering, I did what I always do when it comes to traveling: I went a little bit insane. I decided to extend my weekend in Sacramento to five days across the entire state of California because why not? That's actually what I said to myself as I was mulling over making that long drive from Southern to Northern California. Why not? My bank account tried to interrupt with various reasons why not, namely MY MORTGAGE, but I reassured my bank account I would hardly eat a thing. That would save us loads of money.

{Crumbs cupcakes!}

I thought about making the trip alone at first because as a new mom, alone is one of those hard-to-recall, romantic concepts like naps and a defined waistline. Somehow, though, I convinced Kristie she should join me, and a plan was hatched.

After much research and the purchase of a couple one-way flights, we were ready. We decided to fly out of Austin instead of Dallas-Fort Worth because the flights were much, much cheaper and because we didn't consider how ridiculously tired we'd be on the way home. Nothing relaxes a traveler more than the comforting thought of a four-hour drive home from the airport, with traffic. We were both far less thrilled on that long drive back from Austin than on the drive there, I'll tell you that much. And the drive there started at 5 a.m.

We flew into LAX early Wednesday afternoon, and only hit one, very small rental car snag that convinced me rental car employees don't actually have to know how to do anything at all except scowl and mispronounce names. We found our lovely little hotel, The Crescent, dropped our bags and headed out to explore. I told Kristie I felt a little out of place a few minutes into our walk around Beverly Hills. "How can I lose 50 pounds and get breast implants in the next 15 minutes?" Champagne would have to be my consolation prize.

{Champagne before 4 p.m. This is how I vacation.}

That night, a local author of mine took Kristie and I around town and then to dinner. He showed us where Tom Cruise lives, and you'd be stunned how many trash cans lined Tom's curbs. Tom Cruise: he who creates a lot of trash. Make of that what you will. We briefly considered, you know, sifting through those trash cans for all the alien paraphernalia, but the words illegal and maximum security might have been uttered, and I hadn't had nearly enough champagne for those words.

We didn't actually see Tom, of course, or I wouldn't have led with the part about his trash cans if we had, but we did see Rick Fox, who absolutely no one knows but me, based on how unimpressed people have been when I tell the story, but, come on, how fitting that the one famous person I see in Los Angeles appeared on One Tree Hill.

I'm also fairly certain I saw either Carrot Top or Shaun White. They look surprisingly similar.

We slept unbelievably well that night, and even though I missed Kyle like you wouldn't believe, there really is something to be said about treating yourself to a night away from the kids every now and again, when you can sleep and sleep and sleep until the thought of mimosas and heavy carbs entices you out of bed at 10 a.m. (nearly noon Texas time!)

We grabbed coffee and were on our way to those very things -- mimosas and bread -- at a cute little breakfast place in Malibu in no time.

Los Angeles, you were good to us, albeit briefly, and one day I hope to give you a nice multiple-day visit. I've only really visited as a kid, with the traffic and Disneyland making the only lasting impressions, and then again only for work, with the long, dirty walk to the convention center standing out most. You have a lot more charm than I have given you credit for over the years, and it was a lovely 24-hour visit.

More on where we ate and the other places we visited along our trip later this week.

I'm back, and I have no idea where to start

I could fill a week's worth of posts recapping my five days spent gallivanting across the entire state of California. I think I just may, actually. Starting tomorrow.

Today, I'm back at work, sifting through 8,000 emails. I left my laptop in Texas to properly relax, which was an excellent idea until this morning when my brain exploded. We landed yesterday afternoon in Austin, and after we weaved our way through the airport, we stumbled out into the 90-degree heat and realized we had no idea where we parked the car. "I think it's on the right side of the lot. Toward the back." We were right about that, turns out. Unfortunately, we were wrong about which lot.

It only took one hour of walking aimlessly around the wrong lot and then getting my bra stuck on a chain-link fence to figure out that when you leave your car in long-term parking, you should probably make a note of the car's location. Also, you should tuck in your bra straps.

Kyle was asleep when I got home, well past 10 p.m., but I went in and watched him sleep for a little while, getting ridiculously choked up at how much he had grown in my five days away from him. This morning he slowly smiled when I went in to get him, as if to say, "Yeah, I know you, but from where. I'm having a hard time placing the connection." Seeing that kid's face after five days of only blurry husband-sent cell-phone pictures was better than any Christmas morning I've ever had.

Mike was a superhero while I was gone, and I can't thank him enough for all he did. I won't even mention how badly the trash in Kyle's room smelled this morning or how many ants were in our kitchen or that funky smell drifting out of the sink. Details. I will mention how damn lucky I am to have family who encourages me to head out of town for a girl's trip/blogging meet-up but who remains the most-missed family in the history of traveling.

To all the girls I met this past weekend at The Blathering: holy crap, you were cool. It was much needed, much anticipated and much fun. I hope it becomes a yearly tradition, and that we drink champagne out of cans, dance in gay bars and suffer through hangovers together for years to come. I also hope you know how much better you make this blogging hobby of mine, by just being you.

I'll be back tomorrow with a video of 15 bloggers dancing in the hip-hop room of a gay bar. That's not a euphemism for anything at all.

13 things you should know about me if you're meeting me this week (or ever)

I leave tomorrow for The Blathering, a blogging meet-up in Sacramento at this lovely woman's house. I've already met her, so I know she's lovely.

If I'm meeting you this week in Sacramento or along the way, you should probably know some things about me. 

Such as:

1. I often reference things I assume you know about even though you may not know about them at all. Take Friends, for instance. I can work a good Friends one-liner into absolutely every conversation I have. In fact, I do it often. I will always assume you have seen every episode as I have, and that you don't need any sort of explanation for why I just said, "I grew up with Monica. If you didn't eat fast, you didn't eat." Now that I type that out, I see it probably requires quite a bit of explaining. 

2. I drink a lot of Diet Coke. Probably more than anyone else you've ever known. 

3. I repeat stories. Sorry about that.

4. You will not find me off in a corner, talking to my husband for hours at a time. We've never been that couple. We don't do long phone conversations. It doesn't mean we don't like talking to each other, we've just always preferred that talking to happen in person. It's why we never attempted a long-distance relationship even though the idea came up once. It would never have worked. 

5. I went to Texas A&M. I'll probably want to check the score of our Saturday game at some point. Even though no one but people who went to Texas A&M care about the score of a Texas A&M game.

6. I stay up late. Even as someone who desperately loves her sleep and desperately misses napping like a sonuvabitch since becoming a mother, I still manage to make it to midnight most nights. Elizabeth, you should know I'll probably try to make you stay up into the wee hours of the night talking about life and paint colors with me. I'll make you coffee in the morning!

7. I may come across really quiet when you first meet me, which is very, very strange, since anyone who knows me would not say I was 1) quiet or 2) shy. I think I'm just a natural people watcher. I like to get to know a room, observe from a corner, before I dive in to the conversation. Bear with me, won't you?

8. I don't have anything that even resembles a Texas accent. I moved here when I was 11, but when I've had just a little too much to drink, the twang comes out of nowhere. It's ... rather ridiculously embarrassing. Let's pretend you don't hear it, OK?

9. I will ask someone at the table at dinner to help me figure out the tip. I can almost guarantee this.

10. Unlike BlogHer 2008, I will not be pregnant at this meet-up. So, kindly leave my mimosa alone. 

11. I'm a very liberal, very Obama-loving, pro-choice voting woman, but I live in Texas. I'm surrounded by conservatives. If there's one thing I know how to do, it's to sidestep politics and religion and controversial topics like that. We can enjoy a beer together no matter how we voted. I truly believe that.

12. This is the first time I'm really leaving my son. I may get a little weepy after that mimosa I won't let you touch. I probably won't. I'm sure I'll be fine. BUT JUST IN CASE, BRING ME ANOTHER MIMOSA TO NUMB THE PAIN, WOULD YOU?

13. I like to think I'm pretty good at going with the flow. I believe the more the merrier and life is an adventure and the best of times happen without a plan or an agenda, so I can roll with the punches along with the best of them. BUT, I'm sort of a time nazi. If there's somewhere we need to be, I'll light a fire. I hate being late, which probably stems from my dad being perpetually late my entire childhood. 

Bonus!: I love karaoke, and can probably be encouraged to partake in karaoke even if there's not actually karaoke. 

I wrote something similar before BlogHer 2008. Everything still applies except for being pregnant.

It takes a village

I think there are a few great and genuine tragedies in life, apart from all the very obvious kids-are-starving-and-Spencer-Pratt-is-actually-famous ones. For instance, I think it's tragic so many new moms feel they must hide their fear and trepidation and loneliness about motherhood from the masses or, scratch that, from their friends and family. I think it's tragic mothers feel they have to go behind closed doors to scream or cry or just feel frustration because those who are watching won't approve. I think it's deeply and profoundly tragic that mothers are made to feel guilty for wanting an identity apart from their children, for desiring to cultivate friendships and hobbies and interests or for just wanting an afternoon at Starbucks to page through a Real Simple magazine. I think it's heartbreaking that actual moms have said to me, But no one told me it was OK to feel this way. Many bloggers forget that millions of women aren't parenting with a blogroll in their back pocket, and they are, literally, going at it alone. Their support system is limited to a pint of ice cream when the kids finally fall asleep.

I believe it takes a village -- a community of loving and supportive and encouraging people -- to raise a child. I believe we should find solace and comfort in the mothers who have mothered before us and it's fucking devastating that so often judgment and exclusion and superiority are found in place of that sought-after solace.

I had a very difficult first couple months with Kyle, and I was met with both judgment and solace, sometimes by the same person. I don't regret being honest -- here or otherwise -- about how it was for me and how I got through it. I don't regret saying, "Yeah, that first night home sucked like you wouldn't believe," because it did, and painting a pretend face on the way things are hurts no one more than the pretender.

Also, speaking the truth filled my inbox with words of encouragement. God, it sucks when honesty is held over our heads, but it's pure bliss when honesty is met with a round of applause, as it so often should be.

I leave on Wednesday for a girl's getaway, and I'm thrilled and excited and in need of this Escape, not because my life is so worthy of escaping, no, but because I love adventures, in all forms, and I love the many hats I wear, two of which are Traveler and Wine Sipper (Gulper?) and it's nice to wear those hats away from the laundry and the diaper pail. It's not that we should all need the same things, that all moms should get away from time to time, no, it's that we should all be encouraged to choose our own escapes, even if it's to the playground with our kids in tow. It's not about what we choose but the glorious freedom to have the choice at all.

Not all women struggle with newborns, but all women struggle with something. We all want to bang our heads against the wall at some point, over something, right? Even if it's just how we always manage to take the recycling out one hot minute after the recycling man has pulled away from the curb. It's the community we build for ourselves that talks us off the ledges of life, I think. It's cliche, it's cheesy, but, damn, it's everything.

And this isn't to say we should all stick our heads in the sand and then join hands for a round of Kumbaya. God, no. I don't desire a life void of conflict or disagreement or discussion. But I do think many women don't know how to disagree without becoming dirty, they don't know how to support without sarcasm. It's finding enough grace within to recognize the grace in others.

When you are confident and sure of your choices in life, you are never threatened or insulted when someone chooses differently.

Other than the adorable, munchable, growing-far-too-fast-for-my-liking, smiling, drooling, breathtakingly lovely little boy I get to call my son, one of the greatest joys of motherhood is being able to say these words to other mothers: "Oh god yes. I understand how you feel."

There are these Life Lists floating around the Internet, and I'm compiling, finalizing, tweaking my own because I've always had really big dreams and it's a nice idea to compile them into one, handy list. One thing that's steadily climbing to the top of that list -- something that is really turning into a passion for me -- is to speak openly and honestly about motherhood and marriage. To build a community online, offline, somehow, someway with the mothers I know and the mothers I should know. A serious life goal is to create a vocal, supportive, strong village for my son to grow up in. 

And I thank you if you're already a part of it.

Will the milestones ever quit?

I started writing this really self-indulgent post about intelligence and experience, and how I'm very insecure about the things I know and it keeps me from really making this site what I'd like it to be, and then I circled the topic back around to motherhood and how it royally sucks to be schooled by other moms who think they have it all figured out while I sit back and watch my kid put the laptop cord in his mouth while thinking, If the laptop isn't on, is that really as dangerous as I think it is? There was supposed to be this articulate point woven throughout about being who you are, regardless, and I'm sure I would have channeled a Disney movie's life lesson at some point. But, as you can imagine, the whole thing was coming across very whiny and woe-is-me-ish and just ridiculous, too, and I might have devoted an entire paragraph to a professor in college who told me I didn't belong in his Arthurian Literature class because I used a semi-colon incorrectly (those bastards can be tricky). So, yeah, I'm deleting that entire thing (you're welcome) and am instead bringing you pictures of Kyle's first time in his high chair!

Probably just as self-indulgent and annoying, but look how cute!

 

We registered for this high chair way back in 2008 when we were preparing for Kyle's arrival, and I'm glad we did. Finding the money for this need right now would have been hard. Oh, also, I assembled this myself. I made that Allen wrench my bitch.

Kyle was a big fan of the high chair, and I was a big fan of keeping his carrots and peas contained in one space. Before, we'd been using this chair-with-a-tray contraption or, more often than not, my lap to feed him, and you can imagine how much extra laundry that produced. Also, the extra cost to stain guard the new couch? WORTH IT.

So, you know, time to turn to my default broken-record setting:

MY BOY IS GETTING SO BIG. MAKE THE GROWING STOP!

His favorite foods of the moment, by the way, are: sweet potatoes with corn or bananas with blueberries. All about the combo foods, apparently. Just wait until he tries french fries with ranch.

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Oh, Sarah won the Amazon gift card from this post. Sarah, send me an email at shelikespurple AT gmail DOT com. The prize is all yours if you claim it by Sunday at midnight!

Monday mash-up

Over the weekend I was cleaning my kitchen because sometimes I do that. Not often, but sometimes. There was a spider hanging out on the counter, and in my domestic opinion, rogue spiders do not a clean kitchen make. I hollered into the other room, "Baby, will you come take care of a spider for me?" And yes I might have said "kill" instead of "take care of." To my defense, I knew Mike wouldn't actually kill the spider. He never does. That's just the kind of gentle, loving man I married. Furthermore, I probably wouldn't have killed it either. I probably would have left the room in a very strong state of denial.

Anyway, so Mike walked into the kitchen, took a look at the spider and said, "Oh, that's just Fred." I ... well, I can't remember how I responded, truth be told, but I think it was something along the lines of "What?" "Yeah, I found him the other day and put him in our houseplant. I thought he'd like it there." Hey, you know what spiders also like? WALKING WITH THEIR EIGHT LEGS. Maybe a HOUSEPLANT on our WINDOWSILL above our SINK where I wash our son's BOTTLES isn't the best place for Fred. After a few more rounds of, "Wait...what?" Mike picked up Fred and decided to just put him outside. Probably so I'd stop writing in ALL CAPS or something.

"Oh crap."

"What?"

"Fred jumped out of my hand."

Oh, yes. A jumping spider is exactly the kind of pet I would have chosen to inhabit our kitchen.

Instead of just admitting there were a few very crucial holes in his plan, Mike said, "God, Fred is in a mood today."

Yeah, this is my life.

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So, the VMAs, should this 27 year old comment on them? You're shaking your heads in unison, I CAN ALMOST PICTURE IT, and I'm sure the world really doesn't need one more person calling Kanye West a douchenozzle, but KANYE WEST, YOU ARE A DOUCHENOZZLE. It's not even that I think he was wrong -- although I personally think Taylor Swift is 1) talented, 2) classy and 3) a crazy good role model for teens compared to, oh, EVERY OTHER SINGER OUT THERE -- but if you feel like speaking out against the injustice of AN MTV AWARD, MY GOD, then take to Twitter. Twitter was totally made for this shit. Or take to your personal blog. Or bitch to that woman you brought with you. Rant and rave to anyone with a microphone when that microphone is, you know, OFFERED TO YOU. But don't crown yourself the awards police.

In other VMA-related news, I still love Greenday. I still don't get Lady Gaga although the woman has a killer body, I WANT THOSE ABS. I still kind of roll my eyes at Mike's hardcore crush on Pink while simultaneously kind of having my own hardcore crush on Pink. And I still get goosebumps every time Alicia Keys opens her ridiculously talented mouth.

The New Moon trailer also reminded me why I jumped on the very big, very littered with tweens Twilight bandwagon in the first place. Oh, it looks good!

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The True Blood finale was the biggest letdown of any finale I've seen in ages. THOSE WERE NOT CLIFFHANGERS, TRUE BLOOD POWERS-THAT-BE.

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I have not forgotten about choosing a winner from this post. I have to sort out all the comments I personally left like a total, clueless idiot, and then figure out how many actual comments there were. So, simple math. I have to do simple math, and that's the hold up. Yeah.

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We also went to a birthday party for Kyle's cougar girlfriend, Payton, this weekend. (Crystal's baby girl.) She turned one and had a Hello Kitty party to celebrate. Kyle had a blast, and I think this picture accurately captures that.

 

He's just SO! EXCITED! ABOUT! THAT! PIG! He doesn't have that many toys at home as you may able to tell by his PURE GLEE! But, just look at him, geeked out over this toy. I was watching him at the party, and the way he was sharing toys and interacting with the other babies and watching Payton open her gifts, and this is so cheesy and ridiculous, but I almost choked up because LOOK AT THAT LITTLE PERSON. He's no longer a teeny-tiny infant you can stick in the corner asleep in his car seat. I can almost make out the little boy and the bigger boy and the glaring-emo-adolescent boy he'll turn into be. I can see this person emerging, more and more every day, and it's beautiful. It's everything. It really, really is. No one warns you about these moments, and I'm pretty sure if they did, you'd look at them like they had lost their minds anyway. A PIG, WOMAN? REALLY? God, get over your stupid mom self already.

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After I put that LITTLE PERSON to bed tonight, I'm pouring myself a glass of wine and enjoying the premiere of two of my favorite CW shows. So, yeah, it's not all mom stuff around here. Sometimes it's 16-year-old TV tastes, too.

Words, words, words, PICTURES!

So, yeah, it's been kind of unintentionally deep around here lately. Sorry about that. Especially since it hasn't been all soul-searching and heart-bearing at home, I promise you that.

This past weekend we hosted our housewarming party, which was loads of fun. So fun, in fact, I didn't take a single picture before, during or after. I was slightly worried about accommodating all 35ish people who came. Our house is fun, and we love it, but it's not quite as big as our last one. My worries were for nothing, though. The flow from inside to outside was great, and I didn't feel like anyone was crammed into a corner or being forced to socialize in the bathroom. There was also much beer. Success all around!

Additionally, Kyle was a big hit at the party. At least I think he was. I hardly saw him, that mingling fool.

Speaking of Kyle, he's getting much better at his belly scooting. He's still dragging that fat belly across the floor as he moves, but he's much quicker about it. He shoots across the floor before I have a chance to move cords and dust bunnies out of his way, and I predict this new development of his is going to make it much harder for me to be lazy. Damn.

Although I don't have pictures of our party, I do have pictures of Kyle. SHOCK! 

 

Babies in muscle tees! The new trend! Also, the only way I could get him to enjoy this particular photo shoot was to give him two pacifiers simultaneously. He's a pacifier whore. Also, this photo is from the dusty Rocking Chair Series on flickr, updated today!

Another Rocking Chair Series installment, this time with extra WOE!

 

Close up of the cuteness!

 

Kyle is OBVIOUSLY amused and Mike is OBVIOUSLY not amused. 

 

A random photo from about a month ago I just found. I probably said "awwww" much louder and longer than you are right now.

 

Does YOUR heart hurt? Just mine? Odd. Also, this photo captures his eye color the best I've seen. His eyes are brown, yeah, I'm pretty sure, except they're kind of not brown. I'm sure they'll get browner, but I like having a photo of the color they are right now.

 

Keeping. It. Real.

All over the place

At Bodies in Motivation, I'm ripping my heart out and wearing it on my sleeve today. If you go over to read, go easy in the comments, would you? It's not a hard thing to share, really, as it's no surprise to anyone who has spent any amount of time with me, but it's still not a carnival ride to remind people I'm a flawed girl with a hard past. My eating disorder is the giant elephant in the room I've been avoiding since I started chronicling my weight-loss goals post-baby (10 lbs lost so far, which isn't a whole helluva lot, but I'll still take it). I don't like avoiding awkward topic points, though, so I wanted to finally address it. It's probably why I over share, so I won't ever be accused of holding back.

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In other blogging news, I'm working on getting something new up and running, and it's monopolizing a lot of my free time, so I haven't been able to update my "Post of the Day" sidebar feature as much lately. I bookmark a lot of blog posts throughout the week, though, so here's a few you should go read:

She Just Walks Around With It's really awesome post on breastfeeding. I know we collectively decided that breastfeeding isn't all that controversial a topic -- you do what's best for you and yours, the end -- but Kristy makes some great points in her post, and I enjoyed reading it a lot. Thought you might, too.

Mommy Melee's "Tribes" post. I found this site when the whole Dooce/Maytag insanity hit the Twitter fan. I thought her comments on the whole messy subject were so full of grace and well-articulated, I decided I liked her before I saw how ridiculously cute her two boys are. This post, about needing help raising our children, is so good and spot-on. We can't do it alone, we shouldn't have to do it alone. It takes a village, and that doesn't make a single one of us incapable or weak. It makes us a community. 

Sweet Juniper's "Chypre." My words won't do this post a bit of justice. So, here's a passage:

"They fall in love with every new city, every town they see on this trip through upstate New York and Vermont. The impetuousness that brought them to the west coast and back still tempts them to try new lives. She starts crying in Middlebury, Vermont, as it hits her that one day she will see her kids off to college. One day they will be gone, he thinks. Someday again it will just be her and me.

Some men see women like these two see towns. They see possibilities in each. They wonder what ifs. But when he sees other women, he can only wonder how lucky he was to find this one when he did."

God, I hope everyone alive is loved like that by someone.

Kristin's "Scenes from a Drink." Kristin is making a pledge to give up drinking, and I was inspired by her desire to lead a healthier and happier life. Since becoming a mom, I have felt the grip of stress tighten around me like never before, especially with all I have to juggle each day. I find myself wanting a glass of wine or champagne or a frosty beer at the end of a hard day more often than before, and there's nothing really wrong with that, but I also want to deal with my stresses without the help of alcohol. I want to curb my intake because I think it's important my son always gets the best version of me, and I think it's important that I'm consistently checked into my life. Not that there isn't a time and a place for champagne in my life, but I think many of us could probably cut back on the fatty foods we eat, the stiff drinks we drink and the amount of reality TV we watch, you know?

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I took down my old blog roll recently because it was gathering dust, and I was adding a lot of really cool, talented men and women to my regular reads list without adding them to my links list. So, I'm updating, and fixing some gross oversights (html is a real bitch, and somehow links were wrong and some of my favorite reads were just plain missing). But, I'd love to know who your favorite reads are. Who am I missing. Whose words have changed your day lately?

Reminder

Today isn't an anniversary. It's not a year or two years or five years since anything momentous. It's a normal day like the, literally, thousands of normal days we've spent together. We both went to work today, exhausted from the three-day-weekend and the preparations for and the actual hosting of our housewarming party this past Sunday. A normal, ordinary day.

We've had a particularly stressful few months, and I've probably yelled and sighed and thrown my hands up in the air out of frustration far more often than I ever thought I would.

The dust is finally starting to settle, our boxes are more or less finally unpacked, our baby is cuter than ever. Sometimes it's the normal, boring, ordinary, like-any-other days that remind us how damn lucky we are. That remind us there's no reason to yell, no reason to sigh, nothing to toss one's hands up in the air about.

"You are the best decision I ever made," I closed my wedding vows with. I say that to myself every day, no matter how dirty the dishes, how exhausted the two of us are, even when there's not a honeymoon on the horizon. I say that even when I'm not in a pretty dress, two steps away from a free vat of champagne. I say that every day because it's true. It's true even when he's monopolizing our TV with Call of Duty marathons or forgetting to take out the trash. It's true all the time.

You marry someone not for the wedding days or anniversaries but for all the ordinary, normal, stress-filled days in between. You say I do! because sometimes life sucks and people disappoint and bills go unpaid and babies scream in the middle of the night and when all that shit hits the fan, you want the right choice on your team, the best decision standing beside you, telling you the fights and stresses and money woes are all going to be OK. Relationships are celebrated on the big days but made on the ordinary ones.

On the heels of a few hard, rough, stress-levels-shooting-through-the-roof months, I hope my husband knows still, always, that he is the best decision I ever made. I wake up every day -- no matter how bad the the night before was -- still certain I chose right, I chose best.

Seven months

Dear Kyle,

The months are zipping by at warp speed. Just when I finish writing you one letter, it's time to write another. Yet, there's still so much to say, so many ways in which you're different than you were last month, last week, last night.

This was the month of the Very Scary Incident that happened to you and me, well, to you, but I was there watching in horror, and I'm the only one who will remember, so to us. Because of this Incident, you have been placed on a somewhat-strict all-baby-food diet until your first birthday, and I've already made a mental note to plan that first-year appointment before that first-year party, so you can partake in the ridiculous tradition of being presented with a sugary treat you haven't a clue what to do with, but will shove in your mouth like you shove everything else -- my phone, the remote, Molly.

This was also the month a very Epic Cold and Cough descended upon our family. Not swine flu, although I had us all tested for that more than once -- your mother responds to the news just as CNN hopes all Americans would respond to it, with deep and ridiculous paranoia -- but just your average cold with a side of sinus infection for me, ear infection for you and THE WORLD IS ENDING for your father, who handles being sick the way Dick Cheney handles a gun: very, very poorly. In fact, the only member of our clan who handled the sickness in stride was you. You were the only one who continued to sleep just fine, eat just fine, smile just fine, play just fine, look adorable just fine. While we moaned and complained and did half-ass jobs of keeping things afloat, you rolled with it all, a snotty, coughing mess, but just fine.

You're already the coolest one of us, and I don't think that would stun a single person who knows you.

You began army crawling/belly scooting this month -- although more than one person pointed out that what you do is absolutely not crawling, hate to break the news to you ROSY-EYED MOTHER, although I say if you're MOBILE and getting into your DIAPER BAG and FLINGING those diapers across the room, crawling is a fine label. It's not that I wanted you to crawl at barely seven-months old. I very much liked being able to leave you anywhere and know that the worst that would happen was a minor meltdown or a tongue bath courtesy of Molly. Now, I have to be aware and attentive and, my god, I can hardly believe this job doesn't come with some type of compensation. Obama, add that to the list.

You also sit up and stand with our very-needed assistance these days. Or with the cocktail ottoman's assistance, whichever is most handy. You have started drinking out of a sippy cup. You prefer corn over squash and bananas over apples. You love when I clap! Oh, man, you can be having one of those meltdowns, the kind where you singe my eyebrows with the decibels you reach, and all I have to do is clap merrily and you're all, HA! HAAAAA! I LOVE LIFE! DO IT AGAIN! You say da-da-da-da-da-da over and over, hours on end, but you direct it at no one, and you are definitely not SAYING da-da to your actual da-da, but HOO-BOY does your da-da sure enjoy thinking you are. If you say it on your changing table, DIRECTING IT AT THE WALL, he'll come running in the room. "He's calling me! What's up buddy, what do you need?" When he calls while I'm home with you and hears you in the background, he'll say, "Aw, he knows it's me!" And he sure likes to think you say da-da because you prefer him, which is why I have kicked him so much this month, Kyle. Sorry about all that domestic abuse we've already exposed you to.

What's more, this is the month we found a new day care and a new pediatrician and THANK SWEET JESUS, we like both. You probably thought we were just the most indecisive bunch of crazies you've ever met with the way we've schlepped you to a new facility and new doctor every couple of months. It really does take a village to raise a child, and we just wanted our village to consist of awesome, cool people who didn't routinely suck or make your ears bleed.

You do this thing, and just like that adorable little sound you used to make after you sneezed, I imagine this will change as you grow, so I really want to remember this thing you do. Whenever you're tired, you open and close your hands on whatever surface you can find: my arm, my leg, the couch, Mr. Pup. I think it's the repetitive motion that soothes you, and while one hand is doing that, the other is playing with your ear. This is what you do, every day and night, when you're ready for a nap or bed. I'm so glad you can sooth yourself, although I really can't take credit for your ability to do so, it happened so randomly and haphazardly, but when I watch you start to get sleepy and start stretching that hand of yours out and in, out and in, I know my favorite time of day is about to start. Not the going-to-sleep part, although that's nice, too, I won't lie, but the sleepy-baby part. As most parents can attest, the sleepy baby brings on the cuddly baby and that's the very Best Baby of All. You curl into me as I carry you to your room and that walk, with you gripping me tighter then you ever do during the day when you're all WOUND UP! and GOING GOING GOING! and LET ME REACH FOR THIS AND THAT AND GIMME GIMME GIMME!, that walk is why I became a mother. Every day I'm reminded again and again.

The other day, your day care teachers wrote a note on your send-home sheet that said you seemed hungry after your bottle. You cried when they took it away and you just wanted to suck on the empty bottle and shake it around when they gave it back to you, and I laughed and said, "Oh, no. He just likes to play with it! He's not still hungry. It's just this thing he does." For a very long time when people would ask me questions about you I'd look at them like, "Huh, yeah, no fucking clue the answer to that, sorry." Babies are just such hard nuts to crack! And what's really annoying is they keep changing on you and just when you think you have this ONE THING figured out BAM POW they totally school you. It's so humbling and aggravating and when people would ask, "Oh is that his hungry cry?" Or, "Is he just gassy or fussy?" Or "Why on earth does he do THAT?" I'd look them square in the face and say, "YOUR GUESS IS AS GOOD AS MINE, SO HERE, TAKE A STAB AT IT." You're not born with all the knowledge one baby requires and that's hard on a new mom. I don't know what he wants! I don't know what to do! MY GOD, SIX-WEEK OLD, USE YOUR WORDS! And, then, somehow, someway, we get to know these babies of ours. We're able to start answering the questions and filling in the blanks for confused strangers and we're able to laugh off the quirks other people don't get with a simple, "Oh, that's just something he does." And we're not guessing as much any more because we get it, we know, we're the mamas.

Yes, now I know you well, and more than anything else I ever want you to know, there's this: I absolutely, unconditionally love who you are.

 

I love you, Buds.

Your Mama

Let's turn our attention to pretty things

Oh, you guys. How I wish I could send each of you chocolate to thank you for the lovely comments the other day. Each one just as nice as the last. And the e-mails! It's a delight to know you, and I mean that.

I've decided it's time to move that post down the page, though, so I'll quit hovering over the delete button. Since I'm incapable of writing much else right now -- we're in the midst of frantically cleaning our house for our housewarming party -- I thought I'd share with you a list of pretty things. A Pretty Things List. Things I'm wanting, bookmarking, emailing to Mike with not-so-subtle subject lines stating I WANT. Also things that give me back that warm-fuzzy feeling that life continually likes to kick out of me.

Drumroll, without further ado, yada, yada:

 

I'd like to hang this in our kitchen or near the front door. Matches our modern vintage farmhouse. Yes, that's a real thing.

 

This print from Etsy. Just lovely.

 

I'd love to wear this to a holiday party, but for $178 dollars, it's going to have to throw the party for me.

 

Totally unnecessary shoes that will get worn once every few months, MAYBE, but sometimes you need unnecessary shoes in your closet.

 

I don't know about YOU, but I certainly have $525 to spend on earrings. That is, if I don't pay my mortgage this month. Still, aren't they pretty?

 

Oh, I like this! It's laid-back but stylish, too. 

 

Isn't this dress perfect parts sexy and seemingly comfortable? When I reach my goal weight, I may treat myself to it or anything on that site.

 

Whenever I get around to planting my herb garden, I'd like to get these. It says, I not only have a green thumb, I have great taste, too! That's a lot for one garden to say, I know, but I have high goals. 

 

Perfect for Texas winters, where the highs are sometimes in the 80s. 

 

We have a very stuffy, hot upstairs. This won't do much to fix that, but it'll look great while attempting. 

 

The classic flat with a twist. 

Anything pretty you've been wanting these days?

I hope I'm wrong

I can't remember if my relationship with my dad has ever been really easy, has ever been really good. I think so, I hope so, but still I can't remember. I remember plenty of good times, sure -- the way he used to swerve the car to the beat of the music on the radio, how he's always up for a donut, when he drove so far out of his way last summer to see me another time before my plane left California. He appreciates good music and art and movies. He is whip smart and funny, too. When he's on, he's one of the most enjoyable people to be around. He's not always on.

He can tell you who won the World Series 10 years ago and by how many games and who the winning pitcher was, but he's forgotten my birthday more than once. I laugh because that's funny, right? I laugh because what else am I going to do? "Remember when you forgot my birt...." I try to joke. "Don't go there," he warns. He means it.

I remember being so proud to be his daughter when I was much, much younger, but that feeling faded into something else entirely when I caught on to all the cheating and then it was smashed to smithereens once he walked out for good.

It's the biggest conflict of my entire life, how to reconcile the very, very good with the very, very bad. There have been plenty of both.

I don't blame him anymore for what he did all those years ago. What good would that do? But I have held out hope he would change, that he would stop doing it over and over again, year after year. I hoped he would get it, would see that his temper and jealousy has polluted every good relationship he has ever had. His temper has knocked so much over, left it broken on the floor. There was always so much wreckage left in the wake of his fury, wreckage I spent years sifting through. I'm done sifting now, and I've forgiven him, but, my god, I can't fight anymore. I'm too tired.

I'm struggling, fumbling, tripping over myself to figure out how to have a relationship with a parent as a parent. "We're both adults," he said to me recently. Yes, we are, I thought. But I'm still your daughter.

I write here knowing anyone could read, imagining everyone I know is, just to be sure I don't say anything to end friendships or make dinner parties especially awkward. He could find this space with one quick Google search. He could already be reading it. I'm fine if he is, if he has. I've said all this to him and then some. This is my therapy, this is how I heal, how I figure shit out, how I rise up out of the wreckage of all the broken dreams left shattered below. It's not what you'd do, I'm sure, but write through it is all I can do. Those who love me will allow me that.

There's been another fight, another long string of heartfelt, wounded emails, sleepless nights of thinking about what's best, what I need, what I want. I wonder if it'll ever end. I hope less these days.

One thing I used to say to Kyle when I was pregnant, when I'd be lounging, beached-whale-like, on the couch, was You don't have to give back, you never have to give back. I'm not having you for me. I'm having you for the world. I'm not made of steel, but I mean it. I don't have to be his first choice or his last call. He can prefer people over me and live a life apart from me. People have already gasped at how easily I hand my kid to anyone who wants him, how little it bothers me when someone else sees him roll over for the first time. God, I could never do that. I could never leave my kid! I don't know how you do it! I'm not heartless. I just love him enough not to pin my happiness on him. That's a heavy burden for him to carry, don't I know.

I've often felt my dad has done things for me in order to have something to sling at me when we're arguing. He wants to give, give, give, so he can remind, remind, remind. So I overcompensate. I tell Kyle as I rock him to sleep, Loving you is enough for me. You owe me nothing.

I try so hard to be different that I forget how much there is to love. My dad will hand money to any stranger in need, he'll take me to In N Out Burger whenever I visit, he raised me to accept all people for exactly who they are, regardless of their race or who they choose to have sex with. He's a good man with a good heart, and, yet, I can't remember if we've ever really had a good relationship.

I'm afraid we never will.