There are some days, as a parent, when I think it would be easier to put out a bowl of goldfish crackers and hide in my closet until David gets home from work. Days when Ava, who doesn't bother with carrots or formalities and eats ranch straight off of her hand, spills an entire bowl of ranch on the living room carpet. Days when Alana stands by the front door, crying and repeating her demand to go outside, for 20 minutes, until she eventually runs out of energy.
Some days are difficult, because children are little people, with their own big opinions. Especially mine. They have very big opinions.
Alana is possibly the most stubborn person ever put onto this earth. She's a girl who knows what she wants, and she refuses to budge. Bribery doesn't work. Neither do threats. The only way to win is to be the last man standing. My will, which is only occasionally strong, must outlast hers. Her four-year-old will is strong, stubborn, opinionated and does not know when to call it quits.
Ava is not nearly as stubborn. It's possible that she is affected by birth order, and her natural place as second born means that she is more easy going. She goes with the flow, because she doesn't know any other way. She can allow for other people's opinions, because she has compromised since birth.
There are some situations in life where strong will is a good thing. When faced with peer pressure, it's probably better to not budge. When faced with your mommy telling you no, just listen. Because I'm not changing my mind on whether or not you will ever be allowed to stand on top of the recliner.
The only thing that matches Alana's stubborness is the debate about who she inherited it from. I say David. He says me. Don't let anyone else fool you, it's David. I'm stubborn on occasion, but more frequently a pushover. David is never a pushover. Never.
My only choice when faced with the World's Most Stubborn Child is to become the World's Most Stubborn Mommy. Outlast Alana's standoffs with the rules of life. Outsmart a four-year-old. I may have to say no 1,000 times in one day, and I will. Giving in will teach her that her tactics are successful, and I can't have that. I'm the boss. Not Alana. I'm a first born too. I can be bossy.
Eventually she has to fall asleep. Then I can remember that she can be nice too. Not just the World's Most Stubborn Child.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Friday, May 27, 2011
Summer Fun Time
It may not technically be summer, but it's already hot. Yesterday it was about 95, and today it feels the same. Hot.
There are ways to cope. You can try to beat the heat. You get into your car and feel like you're suffocating. So you go to the public pool, which is overrun by hooligans and teenage girls in impossibly small bathing suits. The water is freezing, but you're only in the wading pool. That's okay, because it still feels good on your feet. Your baby, looking cute in her cherry bathing suit and pigtails, will ease herself in over a fifteen minute period. Toes first. Then the whole foot. Then the other. Then her Pinocchio toy. Then legs, up to the calf. Eventually she's standing in the one foot water, laughing. Her sister is rolling around in the water like a crazy person.
You can play in the sprinklers with your cousins. One of them will keep sitting on the water, then run at the person with the camera with the sprinkler. Boys are definitely wilder than girls. You can swing around in the yard, waiting for someone to push you. Then get out and ease your way into playing in the sprinkler, one drop of water at a time. It's a good time.
Other must do items for us this summer: eat many cups of ice. Also eat lots of popsicles, push-up pops and otter pops. Cookie ice cream sandwiches work too, but they require work. Run in the sprinklers. Go to the movies, at least for 4th of July. Go to the Children's Museum, to get your kid to stop asking. Go shopping, when you have an extra paycheck and money. Buy glow-in-the-dark sidewalk chalk, because it looks like fun. Play. Take large amounts of pictures. I've got that part down pat.
There are ways to cope. You can try to beat the heat. You get into your car and feel like you're suffocating. So you go to the public pool, which is overrun by hooligans and teenage girls in impossibly small bathing suits. The water is freezing, but you're only in the wading pool. That's okay, because it still feels good on your feet. Your baby, looking cute in her cherry bathing suit and pigtails, will ease herself in over a fifteen minute period. Toes first. Then the whole foot. Then the other. Then her Pinocchio toy. Then legs, up to the calf. Eventually she's standing in the one foot water, laughing. Her sister is rolling around in the water like a crazy person.
You can play in the sprinklers with your cousins. One of them will keep sitting on the water, then run at the person with the camera with the sprinkler. Boys are definitely wilder than girls. You can swing around in the yard, waiting for someone to push you. Then get out and ease your way into playing in the sprinkler, one drop of water at a time. It's a good time.
Other must do items for us this summer: eat many cups of ice. Also eat lots of popsicles, push-up pops and otter pops. Cookie ice cream sandwiches work too, but they require work. Run in the sprinklers. Go to the movies, at least for 4th of July. Go to the Children's Museum, to get your kid to stop asking. Go shopping, when you have an extra paycheck and money. Buy glow-in-the-dark sidewalk chalk, because it looks like fun. Play. Take large amounts of pictures. I've got that part down pat.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Who-Bob Lazypants
Nearly everytime I log on to blogger, which is at least twice a day, I tell myself I should write a blog. Just a little something, keep it up to date. Not much. A few words here and there, a cute picture of my ladies, of which I have an abundance. But then, I log out, and resume life.
Somewhere in the laziness of my one month of summer vacation, I've lost the motivation to accomplish things. I still do my housework, but without homework to do I kind of find myself at a loss. Nothing pressing to do, so I do nothing. Check facebook, look at a few blogs, barely comment on those blogs, build forts, bake bread and cookies, take 1,000 pictures of my kids. Those things fill my long days. Nowhere in there do I include dressing my children everyday, washing my hair, mopping my kitchen, or doing laundry before the hamper is overflowing.
Maybe I'm embracing the true laziness of summer, or what I'm gonna call my summer break. I'm taking two summer classes, but they don't start until July. Of course that means that I won't get any of my financial aid money till June, which seems like forever away. But it means I can earn six more credits over the summer, when most people are doing nothing. Last semester I didn't exactly apply myself, and now my GPA is only 3.5, which irritates me. Especially because my easy religion class, in which I never studied and basically had to watch crappy movies and such, only earned me a B. I got an 89%. I missed getting an A by 16 points, which could've been easily earned. If I had only watched the horrible movie Passion of the Christ, then I would've passed the test for it, and gotten an A. So simple. But slacker me couldn't do it. I could not bring myself to watch that horrible violent movie. And I paid the price.
I try to keep busy. I've built an awesome fort, played several rounds of Mr Potato Head, baked bread and made jam. But I still have a lot of hours in my day where I feel like I should be doing something, but I'm not. So I take pictures of my cute and bratty children, which I will post on here, and hope that I magically get a hobby that is time consuming but I will grow tired of before July. It should be free too.
In the meantime we are gonna plan a really awesome fourth of July weekend, cause that's when we'll have some extra money again. I'm thinking Kung Fu Panda 2, or Cars 2. Lots of grilled food, including ribs. And Alana is dying to go to the Tucson Children's Museum, ever since I showed her their website. She asks to look at it every. Single. Day. And as for June, we will be doing anything that's cheap or free. Library storytime. Public pool. Anything to pass the time and beat the heat.
Now for random pictures:
This may be the most random post ever on my blog, but I have a scattered brain this morning. Sorry.
Somewhere in the laziness of my one month of summer vacation, I've lost the motivation to accomplish things. I still do my housework, but without homework to do I kind of find myself at a loss. Nothing pressing to do, so I do nothing. Check facebook, look at a few blogs, barely comment on those blogs, build forts, bake bread and cookies, take 1,000 pictures of my kids. Those things fill my long days. Nowhere in there do I include dressing my children everyday, washing my hair, mopping my kitchen, or doing laundry before the hamper is overflowing.
Maybe I'm embracing the true laziness of summer, or what I'm gonna call my summer break. I'm taking two summer classes, but they don't start until July. Of course that means that I won't get any of my financial aid money till June, which seems like forever away. But it means I can earn six more credits over the summer, when most people are doing nothing. Last semester I didn't exactly apply myself, and now my GPA is only 3.5, which irritates me. Especially because my easy religion class, in which I never studied and basically had to watch crappy movies and such, only earned me a B. I got an 89%. I missed getting an A by 16 points, which could've been easily earned. If I had only watched the horrible movie Passion of the Christ, then I would've passed the test for it, and gotten an A. So simple. But slacker me couldn't do it. I could not bring myself to watch that horrible violent movie. And I paid the price.
I try to keep busy. I've built an awesome fort, played several rounds of Mr Potato Head, baked bread and made jam. But I still have a lot of hours in my day where I feel like I should be doing something, but I'm not. So I take pictures of my cute and bratty children, which I will post on here, and hope that I magically get a hobby that is time consuming but I will grow tired of before July. It should be free too.
In the meantime we are gonna plan a really awesome fourth of July weekend, cause that's when we'll have some extra money again. I'm thinking Kung Fu Panda 2, or Cars 2. Lots of grilled food, including ribs. And Alana is dying to go to the Tucson Children's Museum, ever since I showed her their website. She asks to look at it every. Single. Day. And as for June, we will be doing anything that's cheap or free. Library storytime. Public pool. Anything to pass the time and beat the heat.
Now for random pictures:
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| Alana can always be counted on to hold still for a picture. |
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| Some outdoor time at the end of the day is just enough to get them nice and tired. |
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| I'm not the only lazy one. |
This may be the most random post ever on my blog, but I have a scattered brain this morning. Sorry.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Fresh Baked Love
I cannot imagine a life where I'm unable to just go to the store, in my car, and buy whatever it is that I need. Bread, milk, eggs, cheese, king size Snickers bars, you know, necessities. Everything we need is within our reach, we don't have to do any extra work to acquire it.
If people were unable to buy simple things like bread, how many of them would even know how to make their own? Not many. Tons of people can't even cook themselves simple things, they rely on pre-packaged convenience food, which for the most part, I am opposed to. I don't do Hamburger Helper or Chef Boyardee. Can't say the same thing about David, he loves Chef Boyardee. I might eat a slice of frozen pizza once in awhile, but I'd rather make my own.
As a former fast food employee, I am all too familiar with the huge number of people who don't cook their own food. Here in Benson that number seems huge. I'd see the same people, day after day, eating fast food hamburgers. They had to be sick of them, I know I was. When I quit my fast food job and went to work at a utility company, I was faced with the same people. Many of the same people who I saw day after day at Wendy's, who just couldn't live without their double stack, never paid their gas and water bill promptly. They made excuses and payment arrangements, and were dangerously close to losing service every month. But they had money for a hamburger. I guess they didn't need their gas that much anyway, since they didn't use it to cook.
I view cooking as an essential life skill. I'm not going to go to a restaurant every time I'm hungry, though I do appreciate a trip to Chili's for some cheese fries as much as the next girl. My family needs to be fed, and I'm a particularly hungry girl. The past year my quest for culinary dominance has had me making yeast breads. Pretzels, pizza dough, rolls, french bread. My favorite, carb filled foods. Today I find myself conquering my final yeast bread frontier: homemade bread.
As much as I love a good quick bread, zucchini, pumpkin, banana, I have never made a simple loaf of white bread. Till today. As I type, my kitchen is filled with one of my favorite smells ever, freshly baked bread. I haven't tasted it yet, but I've kneaded my share of dough in my life, so I'm cautiously optimistic. I'm gonna spread it with some strawberry freezer jam I made yesterday, and eat a minimum of three pieces.
On a side note, if you've never had freezer jam, you have to try it. It's so much yummier and fresher tasting than regular jam, because the fruit isn't cooked. And if you're like me and don't have any fancy canning stuff, it doesn't matter. You just put it into a plastic container. So easy! And I just used the recipe that was included with the pectin!
Now that I've sufficiently ranted on about cooking, I'd also like to say that I don't think everything needs to be made from scratch. I personally never put cream-of-anything soup into my food, but that doesn't mean there's anything wrong with that. I like to cook, because I like to eat. I cook with love, because everything I make is going into the bellies of people I love. Ava has a weakness for my chocolate chip cookies, while Alana is a fan of pretzels.
My love of eating has led me to this:
On an unrelated, I didn't cook this but it's delicious note, to supplement my bread and jam eating, I think I'll have a few of these too. Mmmmm. $5 cheese. I know it has a name, but to me it's defined by it's price tag. $5 for six little cheeses. It's a splurge, to say the least. Last night, when faced with the decision of Starbucks or $5 cheese, I thought outside the box and went with the cheese. Too bad my kids keep stealing it from me.
If people were unable to buy simple things like bread, how many of them would even know how to make their own? Not many. Tons of people can't even cook themselves simple things, they rely on pre-packaged convenience food, which for the most part, I am opposed to. I don't do Hamburger Helper or Chef Boyardee. Can't say the same thing about David, he loves Chef Boyardee. I might eat a slice of frozen pizza once in awhile, but I'd rather make my own.
As a former fast food employee, I am all too familiar with the huge number of people who don't cook their own food. Here in Benson that number seems huge. I'd see the same people, day after day, eating fast food hamburgers. They had to be sick of them, I know I was. When I quit my fast food job and went to work at a utility company, I was faced with the same people. Many of the same people who I saw day after day at Wendy's, who just couldn't live without their double stack, never paid their gas and water bill promptly. They made excuses and payment arrangements, and were dangerously close to losing service every month. But they had money for a hamburger. I guess they didn't need their gas that much anyway, since they didn't use it to cook.
I view cooking as an essential life skill. I'm not going to go to a restaurant every time I'm hungry, though I do appreciate a trip to Chili's for some cheese fries as much as the next girl. My family needs to be fed, and I'm a particularly hungry girl. The past year my quest for culinary dominance has had me making yeast breads. Pretzels, pizza dough, rolls, french bread. My favorite, carb filled foods. Today I find myself conquering my final yeast bread frontier: homemade bread.
As much as I love a good quick bread, zucchini, pumpkin, banana, I have never made a simple loaf of white bread. Till today. As I type, my kitchen is filled with one of my favorite smells ever, freshly baked bread. I haven't tasted it yet, but I've kneaded my share of dough in my life, so I'm cautiously optimistic. I'm gonna spread it with some strawberry freezer jam I made yesterday, and eat a minimum of three pieces.
On a side note, if you've never had freezer jam, you have to try it. It's so much yummier and fresher tasting than regular jam, because the fruit isn't cooked. And if you're like me and don't have any fancy canning stuff, it doesn't matter. You just put it into a plastic container. So easy! And I just used the recipe that was included with the pectin!
Now that I've sufficiently ranted on about cooking, I'd also like to say that I don't think everything needs to be made from scratch. I personally never put cream-of-anything soup into my food, but that doesn't mean there's anything wrong with that. I like to cook, because I like to eat. I cook with love, because everything I make is going into the bellies of people I love. Ava has a weakness for my chocolate chip cookies, while Alana is a fan of pretzels.
My love of eating has led me to this:
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| It did not disappoint. I've eaten two pieces so far. Yum. |
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
My Uterus is the Boss
I did not plan on getting pregnant with Alana. She was a surprise. A surprise I love, but a surprise nonetheless. I liked my surprise so much I decided I needed another one. Not so much a surprise, but an invited guest.
When I did plan on getting pregnant, I had a miscarriage. So much for planning. I set myself for heartache. For disappointment. I tried to purposely plan something that's not a sure thing, and I paid a price for it. That's all trying to have a baby is. A game of luck. You have to put yourself out there, set yourself up for failure. Every month is a chance. It could go your way, but you never know. You plan. Then you wait. You wait for an answer. Some lines. Or a monthly visitor to tell you what the next nine months of your life is going to be like.
Waiting is killer. Every minute can take forever. It's ironic that we spend so much of our lives trying to prevent pregnancy, then when we try to achieve it it seems impossible.
I'm still on the fence about a third baby. I don't know if I want to have to try again. Keep track of things. Try to plan. Set myself up for disappointment. I know it's worth it, but I'm undecided. That's why I've decided to wing it. Leave it up to fate. If it happens, hooray. If not, oh well, it wasn't meant to be.
Fate can be cruel, but so can contractions. I'm not putting all my eggs in one basket. Literally.
I'm gonna leave it up to my uterus. It can decide. It might want to flip a coin, play paper-rock-scissors with my fallopian tubes, see what's in the stars, whatever. It's a big part of baby making, so whatever it decides is good.
But there's one condition. I'm giving it a time constraint. It has approximately one year-ish to make up it's mind. After that, I'm done. I will faithfully take my annoying birth control forever after that. Now I just have to wait and see what's in the cards for me. I tell myself it's okay either way, but a tiny part of me will be disappointed if I don't have one more baby. Part of me is gung-ho, team baby. The part that didn't just yell at Alana for kicking a ball in the house. That part of me wants another little monster. The rest of me is good either way.
The team baby part wouldn't mind doing this again.
When I did plan on getting pregnant, I had a miscarriage. So much for planning. I set myself for heartache. For disappointment. I tried to purposely plan something that's not a sure thing, and I paid a price for it. That's all trying to have a baby is. A game of luck. You have to put yourself out there, set yourself up for failure. Every month is a chance. It could go your way, but you never know. You plan. Then you wait. You wait for an answer. Some lines. Or a monthly visitor to tell you what the next nine months of your life is going to be like.
Waiting is killer. Every minute can take forever. It's ironic that we spend so much of our lives trying to prevent pregnancy, then when we try to achieve it it seems impossible.
I'm still on the fence about a third baby. I don't know if I want to have to try again. Keep track of things. Try to plan. Set myself up for disappointment. I know it's worth it, but I'm undecided. That's why I've decided to wing it. Leave it up to fate. If it happens, hooray. If not, oh well, it wasn't meant to be.
Fate can be cruel, but so can contractions. I'm not putting all my eggs in one basket. Literally.
I'm gonna leave it up to my uterus. It can decide. It might want to flip a coin, play paper-rock-scissors with my fallopian tubes, see what's in the stars, whatever. It's a big part of baby making, so whatever it decides is good.
But there's one condition. I'm giving it a time constraint. It has approximately one year-ish to make up it's mind. After that, I'm done. I will faithfully take my annoying birth control forever after that. Now I just have to wait and see what's in the cards for me. I tell myself it's okay either way, but a tiny part of me will be disappointed if I don't have one more baby. Part of me is gung-ho, team baby. The part that didn't just yell at Alana for kicking a ball in the house. That part of me wants another little monster. The rest of me is good either way.
The team baby part wouldn't mind doing this again.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Time is Flying
As of Saturday, Ava is 21 months old. I know. Unbelievable. What's that you say? You can believe it? Well, fine. But you're not her mommy, who is still in disbelief at the incredible pace at which children grow up.
Yesterday, Ava learned to crawl. I swear. Then suddenly, she was walking, causing trouble, sitting at the table, minus highchair and/or booster seat, feeding herself with a fork. Just last week she was laying on the floor, peaceful and content, rolling over. Now she's demanding to watch Wow Wow Wubbzy, and Dora, and insisting that she be allowed to eat Lay's BBQ chips for every meal. Then she cries when we run out of chips.
I'm still on the fence about whether or not Ava should become a big sister, so if she's my last baby I'm determined to cherish these last bits of babydom. She's in a hurry to grow up, but I'm trying to drag her back to cuddle. She can play Barbies later, right now she's going to hug her mommy.
The terrible twos aint got nothing on Ava. She can get into anything she sets her mind to, all with the help of a kitchen chair she pushes around to climb onto stuff. She will: smear glitter lip gloss all over the couch in the blink of an eye, pull Alana's hair, dump out all of the toys, ask for more chips by grunting, all without missing a step. She must have bottoms on at all times, otherwise the diaper is coming off. And if you change the channel from cartoons, prepare to feel her wrath. In this form:
Scary right? Just back away slowly, try to give her some chips, then turn and run as fast as you can.
Ava counters her spunkiness with an equal part of cuteness, in the form of perfect little lips, super long eyelashes and her little baby mullet. I could just squeeze her!
Whenever she is bratty, she makes sure to let me know that she is also cute, and sweet. That's how she manages to get her way. She's a baby con-artist. She can get away with any crime, as long as she follows it with a kiss.
I can't deny that this little person has me wrapped around her finger. I worship this cute little face. I read her countless books. I make her cookies, cause she inherited my sweet tooth. I paint the toenails on her chubby little feet, and attempt to comb her baby mullet into pigtails. If she only knew how much I love her. And how sad I'll be when she turns two in August.
Yesterday, Ava learned to crawl. I swear. Then suddenly, she was walking, causing trouble, sitting at the table, minus highchair and/or booster seat, feeding herself with a fork. Just last week she was laying on the floor, peaceful and content, rolling over. Now she's demanding to watch Wow Wow Wubbzy, and Dora, and insisting that she be allowed to eat Lay's BBQ chips for every meal. Then she cries when we run out of chips.
I'm still on the fence about whether or not Ava should become a big sister, so if she's my last baby I'm determined to cherish these last bits of babydom. She's in a hurry to grow up, but I'm trying to drag her back to cuddle. She can play Barbies later, right now she's going to hug her mommy.
The terrible twos aint got nothing on Ava. She can get into anything she sets her mind to, all with the help of a kitchen chair she pushes around to climb onto stuff. She will: smear glitter lip gloss all over the couch in the blink of an eye, pull Alana's hair, dump out all of the toys, ask for more chips by grunting, all without missing a step. She must have bottoms on at all times, otherwise the diaper is coming off. And if you change the channel from cartoons, prepare to feel her wrath. In this form:
Ava counters her spunkiness with an equal part of cuteness, in the form of perfect little lips, super long eyelashes and her little baby mullet. I could just squeeze her!
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Friday, May 13, 2011
Preschool Angst
Alana has recently given me a few reasons to dread her teenage years. She is one of the most stubborn people I've ever known, which she didn't get from me. I'm moderately stubborn sometimes, but sometimes I'm an all-out pushover.
She has refused to cooperate when I try to cut her nails, requiring small bribes or threats in order to willingly hand over her fingernails. Gross, dirty and overgrown fingernails bother me so much that I do not tolerate them on my children. They serve no purpose, and do not aid in the climbing of trees, as my brother once stated.
One night she outright refused pajamas, which have never been a problem before. She wants to sleep in her dirty clothes she's been wearing all day. That's not happening.
Most of the time her stubborness and tendency towards being a drama queen four year old are fine. We can live with it. It's even kind of funny.
After David wouldn't let her have her way the other day, her emotions overflowed and she responded in a truly teenage way. Fine then! I'm not gonna be your child anymore!
An outburst like that is hilarious at four, not so much at fourteen. I actually laughed so hard after she said that that I cried. Might've been sending the wrong message.
She is emotional, and loving, and sweet and cute and pretty. But when she's a teenager, I'm definitely screwed.
She has refused to cooperate when I try to cut her nails, requiring small bribes or threats in order to willingly hand over her fingernails. Gross, dirty and overgrown fingernails bother me so much that I do not tolerate them on my children. They serve no purpose, and do not aid in the climbing of trees, as my brother once stated.
One night she outright refused pajamas, which have never been a problem before. She wants to sleep in her dirty clothes she's been wearing all day. That's not happening.
Most of the time her stubborness and tendency towards being a drama queen four year old are fine. We can live with it. It's even kind of funny.
After David wouldn't let her have her way the other day, her emotions overflowed and she responded in a truly teenage way. Fine then! I'm not gonna be your child anymore!
An outburst like that is hilarious at four, not so much at fourteen. I actually laughed so hard after she said that that I cried. Might've been sending the wrong message.
She is emotional, and loving, and sweet and cute and pretty. But when she's a teenager, I'm definitely screwed.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Mother's Day and Unrelated Pictures
We had a pretty low key Mother's Day. I got an awesome card, made for me by Alana and David. A one of a kind creation. Also in the envelope: various coupons for household chores and such. I wanted to redeem one of them for this 50 mm lens, but sadly Amazon doesn't accept homemade coupons.
I had fully intended on going to the park and taking a family picture, but outside forces were working against me. I have no desire to stand in the wind and have crazy hair in my family picture, plus I was too lazy to change out of the Mickey Mouse shirt and pajama pants I slept in the night before.
I did however make a pan of homemade cinnamon rolls, but I made the dough and frosting the night before, then stuck them in the fridge till the morning. After a quick rise and bake I had a fresh pan of yummy rolls for breakfast, without actually having to do the work on Mother's Day. We took those to my dad's house for a quick breakfast, then sat around our house the rest of the day, watching DVR'd shows like Parks & Rec and SNL, with occasional breaks so somebody could check the score on the basketball game. Sports don't take a day off for Mother's Day.
We went to the Olive Garden on Saturday, but for a work party for David. We still counted it as a Mother's Day dinner, with the added bonus of not having to pay for it.
I took less than five pictures, which was quite lazy of me. The week before I took at least 50, just at the park, but on Mother's Day I slacked off. It's a good thing I compensated by taking tons every other day last week, some of just my kids and even a sprinkling of me and my kids, well, me and Ava.
I had fully intended on going to the park and taking a family picture, but outside forces were working against me. I have no desire to stand in the wind and have crazy hair in my family picture, plus I was too lazy to change out of the Mickey Mouse shirt and pajama pants I slept in the night before.
I did however make a pan of homemade cinnamon rolls, but I made the dough and frosting the night before, then stuck them in the fridge till the morning. After a quick rise and bake I had a fresh pan of yummy rolls for breakfast, without actually having to do the work on Mother's Day. We took those to my dad's house for a quick breakfast, then sat around our house the rest of the day, watching DVR'd shows like Parks & Rec and SNL, with occasional breaks so somebody could check the score on the basketball game. Sports don't take a day off for Mother's Day.
We went to the Olive Garden on Saturday, but for a work party for David. We still counted it as a Mother's Day dinner, with the added bonus of not having to pay for it.
I took less than five pictures, which was quite lazy of me. The week before I took at least 50, just at the park, but on Mother's Day I slacked off. It's a good thing I compensated by taking tons every other day last week, some of just my kids and even a sprinkling of me and my kids, well, me and Ava.
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| What nice girls to bring me some flowers. |
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| Playing at the park. |
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| Occasionally Ava will let me take her picture, but she won't smile. |
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| Ava posing again, but then she got mad when it was time to go inside. |
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| Homemade cards, coupons and cinnamon rolls. |
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| My ladies love to wear my shoes. It's cute now, but it will be a pain when they're older! |
Culinary Fidelity
In my marriage I do not care if my husband thinks other girls are hot. I'm a realistic adult, I know there are other pretty girls in the world. He is free to admire from afar as much as he wants. I'm not the jealous type. Maybe high school Jennifer was jealous, but married with two kids Jennifer doesn't bother.
I also know one thing to be true in my life: The way to a man's heart is through his stomach.
I may not get jealous of other girl's looks, but there is one solid rule I need to maintain in my marriage. David is not allowed to like other people's cooking more than he likes mine. Even if he does, he can never admit to it. Never.
If he casually mentions that he had a cinnamon roll at work, I need details. Who made it? Was it good? What kind of frosting? And the all important question: Was it better than mine? The answer had better be no, followed by some criticism of the other cinnamon roll.
I am secure in my cooking abilities, but that doesn't mean I need unnecessary competition. In order to preserve the small bit of sanity I have left, David has to say that my cooking is better. That's all it takes. Easy enough right?
I also know one thing to be true in my life: The way to a man's heart is through his stomach.
I may not get jealous of other girl's looks, but there is one solid rule I need to maintain in my marriage. David is not allowed to like other people's cooking more than he likes mine. Even if he does, he can never admit to it. Never.
If he casually mentions that he had a cinnamon roll at work, I need details. Who made it? Was it good? What kind of frosting? And the all important question: Was it better than mine? The answer had better be no, followed by some criticism of the other cinnamon roll.
I am secure in my cooking abilities, but that doesn't mean I need unnecessary competition. In order to preserve the small bit of sanity I have left, David has to say that my cooking is better. That's all it takes. Easy enough right?
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Weighing In
Yesterday my kids both had an appointment where they got weighed, and I was surprised at how much they've both grown. Alana is 41 inches tall, 37 lbs. Little chubster Ava is 30 inches tall, 25 lbs. When did they grow? It had to have been when I was asleep, maybe even on Thursday night before the appointment. They definitely weren't that big the day before.
Before they stepped on the scale I was asked how much each girl weighed when they were born. At that moment my mind was like a virtual magna-doodle, and someone took the little lever and wiped it clean. I drew a complete blank. It's not exactly a question I get asked everyday, then add in the heat and my starvation at that moment. Those components all equal mind freeze.
I tried to remember. Alana was......she was 7 lbs....7 lbs 4oz?......7 lbs 11oz?....no, it was definitely 7 lbs 9oz. In hindsight this is the correct number, but it took me forever to think of it. Then came Ava, my baby. Her birth was less than 2 years ago, I should be able to remember. Ava was.....7 lbs.....7 lbs....7 lbs....4oz. Yeah. That sounds okay. 7 lbs 4 oz. We'll go with that. She deemed this an acceptable answer, but later I remembered that Ava was actually 7 lbs 2 oz. Does any of this really matter at this point in time? What does their birth weight, if it was normal, have to do with anything today?
I want my kids to be a healthy weight, but I don't want it to be the focus of their lives. I feel like teaching them healthy eating habits, and occasionally intervening on Ava's potato chip addiction, should be more of a central focus than concentrating on one number.
Everyone can be so obsessed with weight, even letting it rule their lives. I can remember focusing on my weight as a teenager. Not eating disorder obsessed, but I took pride in being thin. And thin I was. I didn't even reach 100 lbs till mid-tenth grade. That's probably when I reached my full height of 5' 7". I clearly remember stepping on the scale in ninth grade, and being happy when the nurse had to move the weight on the scale below 100 lbs, to accomodate my 95 lbs.
In high school being skinny was like an accomplishment, even if I did nothing to get that way. Even as a skinny skinny teenager, I still found things to complain about. Narrow hips = no hourglass figure, which then = no butt and looking like a boy in a bathing suit. My hipbones actually stuck out on the sides so they could look like love handles in the wrong pants, and even though there wasn't an ounce of fat on my body I still found imperfections. Surprisingly enough I never complained about my small chest, because boobs are nothing but trouble.
Despite being able to find imperfections, I still managed to maintain a healthy body image. Skinny was all I aspired to be, and I couldn't really complain about my lack of cellulite. Still can't.
I stayed okay with my weight, even adding a few pounds post-high school, until I got pregnant with Alana. When I got pregnant I was 24, and 125 lbs, which is at the lower end of the healthy weight spectrum for me. Even though being skinny had always been effortless for me, I suddenly found myself petrified of gaining weight. I was deadset on only gaining the minimum. For at least two months I counted calories. After I realized I never even came close to 2,000 a day, I actually started eating a little more. It's amazing what never drinking soda does for you, and I haven't drank soda since I was a teenager.
I eventually loosened up about eating, and at the end I was proud to have gained exactly 25 lbs. But then I came home from the hospital. That was the part nobody warned me about. The even though I gained no extra weight and had a 7 1/2 lb baby, I still kind of looked pregnant because my hips had widened slightly at the end and my uterus wasn't it's normal size. That part was hard for me to deal with. Well, that and the stretch marks that ruined my beautiful stomach.
You can't exactly come home from the hospital and start doing crunches. You have to let your body heal. And you can't exactly go on a diet when you're breastfeeding, you're fricking starving all the time and suddenly there's way more room in there without a baby taking up all the space.
Within a couple of weeks I could wear my regular clothes again, and I lost all my weight pretty quickly. But my stomach will never look the same. If I end up with a third baby, I'm buying some spanx!
Even with a moderately healthy body image, I've still obsessed about my weight. Even now, at 120 lbs, sometimes I don't care for my reflection in the mirror. Those are usually the times that I've eaten a dozen cookies in one day. Or half a loaf of zucchini bread. But it's nothing a spanx tank top can't fix. And a trip to Walmart for some perspective on what overweight people really look like. Thanks random people at Walmart who could probably use some cardio. I'm not judging though, do whatever you want!
All I want to instill in my kids is an acceptance of who they are. Beauty isn't always the same thing. Weight is just a number, it shouldn't define you. I'm fairly sure Alana is secure in who she is, and pretty confident about her appearance. I'm sure because she tells me she looks pretty. Ava is still a baby, but that doesn't stop her from fishing for compliments. She likes to go into her room, put on some high-heeled dress-up shoes and a random piece of jewelry, then come out into the living room so we can all tell her how nice she looks. Then her face lights up, because of course she agrees.
Before they stepped on the scale I was asked how much each girl weighed when they were born. At that moment my mind was like a virtual magna-doodle, and someone took the little lever and wiped it clean. I drew a complete blank. It's not exactly a question I get asked everyday, then add in the heat and my starvation at that moment. Those components all equal mind freeze.
I tried to remember. Alana was......she was 7 lbs....7 lbs 4oz?......7 lbs 11oz?....no, it was definitely 7 lbs 9oz. In hindsight this is the correct number, but it took me forever to think of it. Then came Ava, my baby. Her birth was less than 2 years ago, I should be able to remember. Ava was.....7 lbs.....7 lbs....7 lbs....4oz. Yeah. That sounds okay. 7 lbs 4 oz. We'll go with that. She deemed this an acceptable answer, but later I remembered that Ava was actually 7 lbs 2 oz. Does any of this really matter at this point in time? What does their birth weight, if it was normal, have to do with anything today?
I want my kids to be a healthy weight, but I don't want it to be the focus of their lives. I feel like teaching them healthy eating habits, and occasionally intervening on Ava's potato chip addiction, should be more of a central focus than concentrating on one number.
Everyone can be so obsessed with weight, even letting it rule their lives. I can remember focusing on my weight as a teenager. Not eating disorder obsessed, but I took pride in being thin. And thin I was. I didn't even reach 100 lbs till mid-tenth grade. That's probably when I reached my full height of 5' 7". I clearly remember stepping on the scale in ninth grade, and being happy when the nurse had to move the weight on the scale below 100 lbs, to accomodate my 95 lbs.
In high school being skinny was like an accomplishment, even if I did nothing to get that way. Even as a skinny skinny teenager, I still found things to complain about. Narrow hips = no hourglass figure, which then = no butt and looking like a boy in a bathing suit. My hipbones actually stuck out on the sides so they could look like love handles in the wrong pants, and even though there wasn't an ounce of fat on my body I still found imperfections. Surprisingly enough I never complained about my small chest, because boobs are nothing but trouble.
Despite being able to find imperfections, I still managed to maintain a healthy body image. Skinny was all I aspired to be, and I couldn't really complain about my lack of cellulite. Still can't.
I stayed okay with my weight, even adding a few pounds post-high school, until I got pregnant with Alana. When I got pregnant I was 24, and 125 lbs, which is at the lower end of the healthy weight spectrum for me. Even though being skinny had always been effortless for me, I suddenly found myself petrified of gaining weight. I was deadset on only gaining the minimum. For at least two months I counted calories. After I realized I never even came close to 2,000 a day, I actually started eating a little more. It's amazing what never drinking soda does for you, and I haven't drank soda since I was a teenager.
I eventually loosened up about eating, and at the end I was proud to have gained exactly 25 lbs. But then I came home from the hospital. That was the part nobody warned me about. The even though I gained no extra weight and had a 7 1/2 lb baby, I still kind of looked pregnant because my hips had widened slightly at the end and my uterus wasn't it's normal size. That part was hard for me to deal with. Well, that and the stretch marks that ruined my beautiful stomach.
You can't exactly come home from the hospital and start doing crunches. You have to let your body heal. And you can't exactly go on a diet when you're breastfeeding, you're fricking starving all the time and suddenly there's way more room in there without a baby taking up all the space.
Within a couple of weeks I could wear my regular clothes again, and I lost all my weight pretty quickly. But my stomach will never look the same. If I end up with a third baby, I'm buying some spanx!
Even with a moderately healthy body image, I've still obsessed about my weight. Even now, at 120 lbs, sometimes I don't care for my reflection in the mirror. Those are usually the times that I've eaten a dozen cookies in one day. Or half a loaf of zucchini bread. But it's nothing a spanx tank top can't fix. And a trip to Walmart for some perspective on what overweight people really look like. Thanks random people at Walmart who could probably use some cardio. I'm not judging though, do whatever you want!
All I want to instill in my kids is an acceptance of who they are. Beauty isn't always the same thing. Weight is just a number, it shouldn't define you. I'm fairly sure Alana is secure in who she is, and pretty confident about her appearance. I'm sure because she tells me she looks pretty. Ava is still a baby, but that doesn't stop her from fishing for compliments. She likes to go into her room, put on some high-heeled dress-up shoes and a random piece of jewelry, then come out into the living room so we can all tell her how nice she looks. Then her face lights up, because of course she agrees.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
My Social Butterfly
Alana is quite possibly the most social and friendly person ever to live. She did not get that from me.
She loves playing with other kids, whether they're her cousins she's known all her life or a random little boy she just met in a waiting room. Either way, they're her new best friends.
It takes her less than five minutes at the playground to befriend any random and willing child. It starts with a standard introduction Hi, I'm Alana and I'm four. She points to herself. Then she points to Ava. This is Ava. She's one. Ava grunts in agreement, then holds up one finger as confirmation of her age.
She always makes sure to include her age in her introduction, because we all know that's the most important factor when meeting someone. Hi, I'm Jennifer and I'm 29.
Next comes the other child's standard intro, which then includes their age, because it's only polite once Alana has revealed her age. Hi, I'm (insert name here), I'm four. Not that everyone she meets is four, but when they are it's cause for celebration. No way! You're four, I'm four. What are the odds?
Playing commences, with Alana willing to participate in any game this other random child can imagine. Tag? Sounds good. Be as loud as humanly possible? I'm in. Jump in place? I can't think of anything I'd rather do.
I know when the eventual sad day comes next year, and she starts kindergarten, she will be ecstatic. Play dates, all day, everyday. New kids to befriend, and hug against their will. Art, her almost favorite pastime. Recess, everyone's favorite subject in school.
Kindergarten 2012 will make me one sad mommy, left with just Ava home during the day. But it will make Alana the happiest five year old alive.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Walk a Mile in My Shoes
No matter how long you know someone, or how much you've read their blog, you never really know everything about them. You don't know about what they're thinking all the time, you don't know how their mind works at all. You can't possibly know anything about their relationships, because you'll never know what goes on behind closed doors.
People don't know everything about me. They don't know that I can be so passive that I avoid confrontation at all costs. Most people don't know I cry over dumb things, like Steve Carell's last episode of The Office. Seriously though, if he hadn't said goodbye to Pam I would've been so mad. People don't know that my feelings are easily hurt, because I don't say anything.
People don't know that I sold some of my scrapbook stuff in order to buy my kids new shoes. That the reason we make sure to take a vacation to Disneyland every year with our tax returns is because the rest of the year our budget is stretched so thin we don't usually have money for fun stuff.
I don't claim to know everything either. I don't understand people at all sometimes. We were pretty confused about our loud neighbors. Why were they being so loud in the middle of the night? What could they possibly be doing at 1 am, that would consistently make loud noises, and bang against the wall, until 7 am, keeping us all awake? That's why we called the cops, and when that didn't stop the noise, called the landlord the next day to complain. There's no possible way we could've known that the cause of the noise was one of the tenant's nine year old son, who is autistic. If they had explained that prior to the noise, or even after, we would've been more understanding. We could've compromised, and possibly told them just to go into the front bedroom, that doesn't share a wall with our bedroom. No cops or complaining necessary.
No one will ever understand me or the way my mind works, but I'm nowhere close to understanding them.
People don't know everything about me. They don't know that I can be so passive that I avoid confrontation at all costs. Most people don't know I cry over dumb things, like Steve Carell's last episode of The Office. Seriously though, if he hadn't said goodbye to Pam I would've been so mad. People don't know that my feelings are easily hurt, because I don't say anything.
I don't claim to know everything either. I don't understand people at all sometimes. We were pretty confused about our loud neighbors. Why were they being so loud in the middle of the night? What could they possibly be doing at 1 am, that would consistently make loud noises, and bang against the wall, until 7 am, keeping us all awake? That's why we called the cops, and when that didn't stop the noise, called the landlord the next day to complain. There's no possible way we could've known that the cause of the noise was one of the tenant's nine year old son, who is autistic. If they had explained that prior to the noise, or even after, we would've been more understanding. We could've compromised, and possibly told them just to go into the front bedroom, that doesn't share a wall with our bedroom. No cops or complaining necessary.
No one will ever understand me or the way my mind works, but I'm nowhere close to understanding them.
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