ultimish.com

I'M AN ABOLITIONIST

Wed, 26 Oct 2011 19:30:44 -0500

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

I attended a conference in Arizona a little over a month ago where I met the marketing team behind this piece. It affected me so profoundly that it was all I could think about, not only for the remainder of the conference, but practically ever since then as well. It reminded me of the mission of two of my neighbors and how they, as ethical consumers (and just generally good people) sent a list of companies that promote fair and ethical work environments. Quietly, but directly. It was in an email or maybe a Facebook post around the holidays like “Hey, just in case you want to you know, be aware, consider this before you buy a bunch of useless plastic for the kids that would be just as happy with you chasing them around the house or reading them a book you Christmas gifts. They don’t browbeat people about how to make a difference; what to buy or what to boycott, and unless you do what they suggest YOU’RE PART OF THE PROBLEM AND HOW DO YOU SLEEP AT NIGHT WHAT WITH BEING SUCH A HORRIBLE PERSON?!
They teach by the example they set with their lives. They’re abolitionists. And after doing some research, and frankly, after seeing that video, I realized I had been turning a blind eye to violence, and for the sake of convenience, chosen to stay ignorant for far too long. I realized I wanted to be an abolitionist, too.  As a child, I would have a recurring nightmare: My mother and I would pull into the parking lot of a grocery store, and I would be left in the car so she could quickly run in to get a few things. While she was in the store, a strange man would pull up and park in the spot beside ours. He was faceless. The vehicle, nondescript. And, without any sort of struggle, or temptation, without being lured at all, I would unlock my door, walk around to his car, and sit in the passenger seat. As soon as I closed the car door, my mother would emerge from the grocery store, arms filled with shopping bags. She would stare at me as I sat in a stranger’s vehicle, and just start sobbing, seemingly unable to move. Frozen. Then, I’d start crying, too, realizing the mistake I had made, but it was too late. I just watched my heartbroken mother as we drove away.
I'd always wake up at that point. Nervous and terrified about being stolen from my mother. Sometimes, when I feel insecure, anxious, or unsafe I still have that child’s nightmare.   Now that I have my own child, I have the same nightmare, only I play a different role. Instead of the abducted, I am the one who fears that the person most precious to me will be taken. I think about the millions of parents whose children have been stolen from them only to be abused so horrifically.  How can we make a difference? How can we stop so much rampant brutalization? What can we do promote change? Even if we can’t save the 27 million, wouldn’t it be worth it if we affected the life of one?   My adorable daughter has fair skin and blue eyes, and because she has had the privilege of geographical origin, she is exponentially less likely to be abducted and enslaved. As immeasurably valuable as she is to me, as treasured and as loved, isn’t every child just as precious? To someone? Even if not cherished by their biological parents for whatever reason, then adoptive parents? If not by their own family, then by members of their universal family? This may sound incredibly superficial coming from someone who has never been a foster parent, and who right now, isn’t considering adoption, but...I love them. And I want to try and offer a voice to those who aren’t able to yell as loudly as I can.
I don't care if people think I'm obnoxious. I don't care if acquaintances roll their eyes. I don’t care if I am condescended to; Oh Julie, and another one of her soapboxes. But, I do care when people willingly look away like I did because they value their convenience more than the safety and well-being of a child. Millions of children.
I think of how my daughter clings to me when she gets tired or scared. How she is so easily soothed when I smooth her hair and hold her close. What must it be like to not be able to comfort your child? To know they are terrified, and to not only be unable to console them, but to understand that they are being consistently tortured?  I am not an extremist. Like I said, right now, I am struggling with figuring out how I can help. From what I understand at this point, it seems by doing so little, if we do so en masse, we have the potential to do to so much. I guess that’s a start. If I am unable to offer my home, that shouldn't make me unable to offer my voice. That doesn’t mean I can’t lead with my heart. I can be conscious, and I can do what I know to do.  Please be aware of what and where you purchase. Do you support companies that enslave children in order to bring you low prices? If you can't afford something that was manufactured in an ethical environment, is it too difficult to consider a substitute, or even perhaps that item may be unnecessary in the first place?  I am your neighbor. Whether I share your zip code or your planet. If your child were abducted, I would hold your hand and keep vigil. I would lend whatever resources I could to prevent this tragedy from happening to another parent, and especially, to another child. That’s someone’s baby.
If I can't do it in person, I hope to do it by acting responsibly. I hope you join me.
*Edited to add, I recently purchased what I thought was fair-trade candy to distribute to our Trick-or-Treaters, but I found out otherwise, and felt awful. I wasn’t planning on making a huge issue out of it, but I wondered if Target would take my items back. It never hurts to ask, right? The manager at Target was happy to take my OPENED bags once he heard my abbreviated reasoning: “I discovered that the companies that made this candy contribute to child slavery, and I would like to return them.” He agreed immediately, gave me a gift card, and stated, “I wish we sold nothing BUT fair-trade items...we’re working on it.”

For a list of fair trade Cocoa product click HERE.

Not For Sale (iphone or android) bar code scanning app - click HERE.

Read Slave Free Chocolate HERE.

Buy your chocolate online HERE.

Download Slavery Footprint by clicking HERE.

Read this other very helpful blog HERE.

BUBBLES FOR ISABELLE

Sun, 24 Jul 2011 20:33:26 -0500

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

66 days is a long time for a dabbling writer to not write, I guess. I have started and stopped this (likely incoherent) piece so many times over the last couple of months, not knowing what it was or what I wanted it to be. I think I just need to emancipate some of these thoughts that keep lingering in my head.
Besides, I can’t think of anyone that should be written about more than Isabelle. Her story, the story shared with Richard and Sebastian, should be told, as in my opinion, there is no one more heroic than darling Isabelle. And, I want to say something about her.
And something about her mother. My friend. About Kelley. A little of her her story and her impact on mine.
When I was 14, I met a girl who would become one of the most influential people in my young life. Across the aisle in Spanish 01, we laughed as we conjugated, and though she was a just a year ahead of me in school, it seemed like she was light-years beyond me in every other way.
We became friends. Sisters, practically. I didn’t have a lot of close girlfriends, and she was the leader along the path paved with what would become some of the most treasured relationships I have had in my life, the ones with other girls. Women. Soul mates.
As with the majority of my high school and college adventures, having her along would, of course, make it more fun. Complete it. Make it whole. Make it safe. So, after I graduated, she moved from Missouri, joined my trek from Texas, and together we moved to New York.
We leapt. Expecting the net to appear, I suppose. Believing it would. Both of us had done something like this before – soldiered through uncharted territory with success. We made plans, looked for apartments, tried to find jobs, but while we were trying to get our bearings, we fought about something. What was it? In the midst of what I can only imagine was a great deal of trepidation in the first place – my moving to New York with not so much as my family’s encouragement, but rather their acceptance – Kelley and I hadn’t just disagreed and moved on as we had so naturally done in the past. As I recall, (vaguely - from blocking it out with an heavy shadow of self-righteousness, to be sure) it stemmed around who and how to ask for help while we struggled to make our beginnings in Manhattan. I can’t help but remember, not to make it sound trite, but Jesus, it kind of was, that the whole fight had Daddy issues at the core of it. Mine, certainly. Hers, perhaps. Both of our neuroses sort of clashed like two freight trains speeding towards each other, and exploded upon collision.
Not until quite some time later did I discover that the only way out is through, and so, hindsight being what it is, I now know that I shut out a lot of those people who were brave enough to try and confront me. And, at least for a little while, I didn’t just shut out...a part of me shut down. So, sadly, it didn’t really matter what she said when she attempted to repair that friendship. It wouldn’t have. Pride is strong, but self-preservation is stronger. One’s self is a highly sophisticated instrument, and it only allows you to deal with what you can at any given moment. I didn’t want to look in the mirror, then. And I turned my back on those that held them in front of me.
There is so much more to the story, though. So many sweet moments of our friendship. Shared triumphs. Defeats. Heartbreaks. Joys. Harmonies perfected while wearing out cassette tapes in Kelley’s Prelude. Oh my god, the laughter. Kelley and I spoke the same language. In the same rhythm. With the same tone, and usually in order to get the same result. Often, that result was begging the other one to stop. Just stop! Please! Otherwise, we would never be able to catch our breath between eruptions of laughter.
I was so glad that after years of estrangement, we reconnected recently. She lived across the world, but we’d email, comment on photos, send wishes of happiness to each other. I didn’t know when it would be, but I knew that if we just got in the same room, we’d fall right back into sync and rely on the common ground we’d always shared. That we’d hug and cry and forget about the years in between sitting on each others’ sofas, and be us again.
* * *
Kelley and I wrote sporadically, but I revisited her blog a lot. Too much, probably. I would read her words and think, “Oh, that is so Kelley” as if I still had the right to. As if she hadn’t evolved into this person that was still light-years ahead of me.
I read about her meeting and falling in love with the man who would become her husband.
I read about what would turn out to be morning sickness during her honeymoon.
I read about the anticipation of Isabelle, her welcome, and her beginnings. Each and every new discovery of this cotton-topped little cherub and those of Kelley as well.
It was as if I was still on an adventure with Kelley. And I was so grateful to being able to at least be able to read about her life and share in it from afar. As she always had, Kelley was still mentoring me. Still teaching by example. What should a new mother be like? How does a good wife act? When does she make time for herself when she works outside of the home as well? With another baby on the way, how will she manage?
Well, of course!
With grace. With humor. With passion. With an immeasurable generosity of spirit. And with a fiercely tender willingness to love.
That is so Kelly.
* * *
The highlight of Kelley’s blog was Isabelle, Kelley’s bright and shining light of a daughter. Her smile bounced off the screen. And with those big brown eyes, and that peaches-&-cream complexion, she was Kelley’s little replica.
Her independence and effervescence were often captured with Kelley’s camera. (What is it about a mother’s eye that always seems to get the purest, most innocent moments of her children?) And when Sebastian came along, the joy seemed to exponentially multiply. I’d click through the pictures and practically coo at the monitor.
And I was so happy for Kelley. She found so much love. Created so much love. No one deserved it more. I’d read her emails, write her back, revisit her blog, and just, I don’t know. Feel content and “all-is-right-with-the-worldish” after doing so.
* * *
A few months before Isabelle’s 3rd birthday she suffered from complications associated with an extremely rare viral infection and was rushed to the hospital.
I’ve written and rewritten several paragraphs here, but I don’t know. I just don’t feel like it’s my place. The tragedy, the shock, the will and hope, the process of saying goodbye, the weight of loss, the sting and aching – none of it is mine to write about.
Her parents held and kissed her. I am sure they whispered all the things you’d tell your baby before her most important journey, and in her mother’s loving arms, Isabelle passed away while Kelley rocked and sang to her.
The suffering of 5 other families was then prevented with the donation of Isabelle’s life-giving organs.
No one more heroic than darling Isabelle.
* * *
By now, I hope you’ve read about Bubbles for Isabelle. About how Richard and Kelley acted with love and compassion towards others experiencing loss. How they paid it forward by encouraging all of us to post pictures of our loved ones engaging in Isabelle’s favorite pastime, blowing bubbles, on a facebook page titled with the cause’s name. For every picture, a blanket would be given to children in need, (first going to those affected by the recent tornadoes in Joplin, Missouri) in honor of what would have been Isabelle’s 3rd birthday. Today.
I have been thinking about Kelley for the last 2 months, several times, every day. At one point, Kelley and Richard requested that we speak Isabelle’s name, and so we do...every evening. My little girl and I end our day with gratitude and by remembering Isabelle, even though we never met her. We remember her. We want to, at least in our little way, honor her.
“Thank you for the food we eat. Thank you for the world so sweet. Thank you for the birds that sing. Thank you, God for everything. And bless all children far and near. Keep them safe and free from fear.”
Me: And God bless
Jane Scarlett: Isabelle
Me: and Isabelle’s parents and
JS: Bastin! [Sebastian]
Me: Watch over them and bring them
JS: wuvanpeas [Love and peace].
Me: Amen.
JS: Amen.

Yes, God. Bring them love and peace.

* * *
Today, I am aching for Isabelle’s family. Not infrequently, the unfairness of her absence strangles me when I watch my own little girl, and I can’t stop the tears from falling.
But, then I think of Kelley. Lit from within and radiating to everyone else.
As she always has, Kelley is still mentoring me. Still teaching by example.
Subconsciously, I whisper to myself, “Treasure each and every sparkling moment with this soul you are privileged to know. Be like Kelley. Brave. Strong. Loving. Remember, but look forward, too.”
I tickle Jane Scarlett’s neck and face with a sprinkling of kisses. And then we continue to twirl and blow imaginary bubbles off our fingertips, willing them to float higher, and look up.
Just as I always have to her Mama before her, we will forever more be looking up to Isabelle.

YOU ARE MY SUNSHINE, I LOVE YOU TO THE MOON AND BACK, AND OTHER CLICHES A MAMA TELLS HER BABY

Mon, 2 May 2011 22:57:08 -0500

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

Sweet baby, I am about to type a bunch of clichés about you turning 18 months old, and one day you may look back at this and think, “Type? What is typing?” because by that point, the same “They” that figured out how to make a mattress that you can set a glass of wine and jump on at the same time without spilling ONE SINGLE DROP will have invented that microchip that will get inserted, at birth, into human brains, so that as soon as we think of someone, their hologram will materialize. That’s what I think anyway, when I think of you being a teenager. But, here we are in 2011 and nary a jetpack in sight on the shelves at Target, so who am I to say?
The point is, this time sure is flying. I gotta’ admit, though, that as much as I enjoy your baby-ness (save for the last 6 weeks – we’ll get to that in a minute), every time I think you’re just about as fun as you can get, you wake up glowing a little brighter. The baby book I received at bought for myself (What? It was so cute, and pink, and I just found out you were a her!) for the shower thrown by your Aunts Jill and Leslie kind of cuts off at the year mark, and then skips to your other yearly birthdays. I didn’t know it when I purchased it, but now I am pretty confident that the authors of that particular baby book did not have children, because in the last 6 months, you have changed so much, and have reached so many other milestones that they don’t even have a “First time” blank for. You have gone from a giggly little baby into an inquisitive, chatty, energetic little girl.
Sigh. You’re still a baby, though! ACK! I just can’t call you a little girl, yet. Even though I think it every time I see you practically sprinting to your Daddy/after a ball/to chase the “bubbas” in the back yard. Lest you think we have been invaded by hillbillies, “bubbas” is what you call “bubbles.” (The hillbilly thing won’t happen until we make it to a maternal side family reunion.) Your pronunciation of almost every word in your extensive-for-your-age vocabulary slays your Daddy and me, so we ask you what things are all the time so we can laugh at you. You won’t know until you become a parent that that is what kids are really for. To make fun of for your own amusement. Thank you for appeasing/entertaining us. YOU’RE HYSTERICAL.
You are walking (finally at 16+ months). We were never worried, though. I knew you’d get to it, but probably just took after me when it came to either focusing on talking or physical activity. Hmmmm. Decisions, decisions.
In addition to “bubbles,” you can also say:
• Outside – pronounce Outsiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh – like the Budweiser frogs say “Whasuuuuuuuuup.” Google it. Or YouTube it. Or I don’t know, think of it and that hologram chip thing will project that old commercial right onto your retinas.
• Mama – duh
• Daddy
• Night Night – Nigh Nigh
• Please – Exactly like “peas,” but with the accompanying sign
• Thanks! – This came way early. Like at a year old. So courteous you are!
• Almost all family members’ names – Nana, Boompa (Boom), Gram (Gam), Pop, Mimi (Meemaw most times, or MeeBee), Oliver (Oh), Preston (PRES! Usually said like a kid says “Yes!” after learning they called a snow day), Taylor (Tar...we have to work on that one), Dylan (Din), Lauren (Lon), and then...all the aunts and uncles get a little, shall we say, interpretive? You can’t say “Aunt Leslie,” but have said “Les” for a long time, and recently have graduated to Les-ee. When Aunt Jill called you the other day, you called her Ah-jih, to which I replied, “Bless you,” but you didn’t even laugh.
• Gracie – Surprisingly, pretty spot on, even though she rarely wants anything to do with you. Don’t take it personally. She’s nicer to you than she is to any of us, and you chase her and pull her fur.
• Annie - Ah-yee
• Pretty - Pitty
• Tree – Tee!
• Moon
• Hush! – Always said on cue during Goodnight Moon
• Bathtime! – Bathtie!
• Bathtub
• You can identify all of your bath toys when I ask you to “find the_____” and call them: fish, snail, pen (penguin), ocknus (octopus), duck (with required “Cak Cak!”), snores (seahorse...I ask you this one a lot because it cracks me up), tuhtul (turtle), nahcoon (raccoon), ee-tant (elephant), and seep (sheep). Why there is an elephant, raccoon, and sheep in the set, I do not know. But, we house an equal opportunity bathtub as far as toys go, so they’re all welcome.
• Nice – NiiiiiiiiiiiiiIIIIIIIiiiice. Yes. You say this sing-songily because we started saying this to you to encourage petting Annie instead of hitting her. Then we started saying it to YOU in order to not hit YOURSELF. Now, you say it to yourself and stroke your face. I kind of want to call you Lenny when I see this, but refrain. Most of the time.
• Home
• Miss Jessica – Jessa!
• Shoes
• Paci
• Hot Dog! - Hog Hog! (The song from Mickey Mouse Club House)
• Cheers! – Also from MMCH. Thank Jesus you didn’t pick that one up from Mama.
• Lots of foods – cheese (Mama’s girl!), nana (banana), fish, apple, taytoh (potato), peas, gok (milk – I don’t get it, either), dink (drink – with the sign), tihchin (chickin), take (steak), cahcker (cracker), egg, and a lot of others, but I am too spent to mentally go through the pantry and fridge. You most recently added, “Peeps” after the Easter Bunny hopped on by.
• Your favorite word...by a landslide...much to your typical MALE cousins’ delight is...POOP! You announce it to me every time it is applicable, which is getting me thinking about potty training, but eh. I think around 2.
I could list off a lot more words, but much to your mother’s chagrin, you basically can repeat everything. Um...yeah. I’m trying, honey. I’m really trying to clean up my act as far as the “bad words” go, but I gotta’ say that if your school called me to tell me you said “%^&$,” I would at first feel guilty, I’m sure, but then, I think I’d ask if it was used in proper context, make sure it was not at anyone’s expense, and inquire if you had good comic timing. There are worse things to get a phone call from school for, is what I’m saying.
And one of those worse things is if you are sick. I have gotten those calls. A lot. Even today! What’s a Monday afternoon of nose-to-the-grindstone-ing without a call about your temperature?
I am so tired of you feeling punk. And I hate seeing your sweet little face look at me as if to say, “Mama, I feel like %^&$.” It is so frustrating not knowing what to do or how exactly you’re hurting. I’d take it all on exponentially if I could, shoogie. Tomorrow, I am calling your doctor, again. Yes, both your Daddy and I have a million times parroted back what we have heard from all our peers who are parents. “This just happens when kids start school.” But...I don’t know. I am thinking we might be missing something, and am not going to let up until we get to the bottom of it.
You are funny, smart, smiling, opinionated, loving, and playful. Lately, I tell myself that a lot. Every time I think Oh no, she’s sick again, I remind myself of all those other adjectives in addition to scads of others instead of “sick.” Because you are a healthy girl, Jane Scarlett.
The day we went to the doctor (and you were diagnosed with the flu), we arrived to find a full reception room. In addition to the throngs of coughing, sneezing, and sniffling children (Ew. And that one little boy who threw up all over his mother. Nice reflexes, mom-of-spewing-little-boy! Bravo!), there was also a stretcher there with 2 attending EMTs. The mother looked more exhausted than worried, and after I saw her little boy, I gathered why. He had tubes attached and inserted all over the place, and was in an infant carseat although he looked as if to be at least three years old. His little hands seemed as if they never developed – just the fingers protruding from what looked like his wrists. One ear was completely missing. His eyes were bright, though. He wasn’t crying. And I smiled when you started throwing him kisses and he giggled back at you. This exchange lasted a while. You kept reaching out to him, as if you wanted to get in that carseat with him and play, but I worried about getting you too close for fear of him catching whatever you had.
For that moment, you both seemed so unaware of feeling bad. Or...feeling badly. You were just 2 children who connected and wanted to play, and I remember squeezing you a little tighter, thinking of how blessed I am, we are, that your battles right now, while inconvenient and uncomfortable...that they will go away.
I yelled at myself in my head to not let those tears I felt welling up fall. Smile and fuss over him!
His mother smiled at me. It was a tired smile.
“I know, Mama,” I think and smile back. Even though I didn’t. Empathized, but didn’t and don’t know. “Look at those blond curls!” I actually say. “What a sweetheart.”
You were throwing kisses to him as he was wheeled away.
“Bye byes!” you said.
You are a joy.
You are growing so fast.
You are loved more than any baby ever was.
I am so lucky I get to be your Mama.
(See? I told you there would be a lot of clichés.)

SICKO

Tue, 19 Apr 2011 15:06:16 -0500

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

Right. So, my last post was me whining about how tired I was. What should I write about next? Hmmm...what goes well with tired? SICK OF COURSE! Now let me whine about being sick! Sick! And tired! Y’all, forget about going to Disney World, just come to this here website to experience the most magical place on earth!
Jane Scarlett started school on Monday, March 21. The following Thursday, in the middle of the night (of course), she spiked a high fever, and the next morning, the doctor confirmed “it’s the flu.” Hey, you know what is more fun than taking your preshus little angel fluff to the doctor on a “shot day”? (And, I do mean, the days your kid gets a round of vaccines, not the day set aside to lick it, suck it, slam it, although who are we kidding? Sometimes one leads to the other. Am I right? HEY-OH!) One better is having to hold your writhing and terrified baby down while a nurse shoves 7 foot swabs up her nostrils. I’m pretty sure Nurse Ratched was a bit too enthusiastic, and may have gone a little too far, as once Jane Scarlett calmed down (after what we now refer to as Operation: Brain Tickle), she could speak fluent French.
For those keeping score: 4 days at school, then Friday spent at home.
Her fever simmered down and she was showing shades of her usual vibrant hue over the weekend, but we kept her home the following Monday as a precaution, and back to school she went on Tuesday, the 29th.
Thursday nights are like Litmus tests in our house I guess, because once again, 2 days later, Little Miss screamed bloody murder in the middle of the night, and I found her in her crib, sweat-wet and miserable.
What do you think? Should I should start bringing coffee every Friday morning to our Pediatrician? Perhaps we’ll pick a book to read and discuss.
“Ear infection and ‘baby’ sinus infection.” (Apparently babies don’t have fully formed sinuses? Huh. Learn something new every day!)
Kids. I love my girl, and by law, as her mother, I am required to tell you how damn adorable she is. Plus, I have eyes, and therefore can confirm that, yes - she is a cutie. BUT OH MY GOD. Friday morning, she woke up and looked less like a Johnson & Johnson’s ad and more like a stand-in for Alfred Hitchcock. Her deep-set/heavily lidded (Sorry, honey - Mama’s genes!) eyes were practically swollen shut. She didn’t want juice (which I only introduced to get her to drink something...anything), popsicles, jello, nor any of her usual faves. Fine. I confess. I gave her watered down 7-Up. My name is Julie. And I gave my toddler soda.
HI, JULIE!
For at least 2 days, she survived on water, oranges, and Goldfish crackers.
She could only sleep in fits and starts, and usually only while I was holding her. We had to cancel a weekend we had planned for 1/2 a year...with some of our favorite people, but hey. If we were only “meh” about them, we’d have gone and spread our germs, devil-may-care. (I’m still a little bitter about missing it, can you tell?)
With the antibiotic given, I could tell she felt better within a day or so. No fever. Back to the den of plagues school on Monday!
Score: 8 days of school, 3 at home.
All Monday at work, I was saying to myself, “This happens. Every time a kid starts school this exact thing happens. Let’s hope it’s like a bandaid. We’ll just get through the sting fast, and she’ll be done with this for a while.”
I maintained this delusional attitude a full 2 and a half days, until Wednesday afternoon, when, while prepping for a big Fashion Week meeting, I got a call on my cell from the preschool.
“Jane Scarlett woke up from her nap throwing up. A lot. I mean. A pretty good amount.”
Now, I am new to having a kid in preschool, but I was pretty sure her teacher wasn’t giving me a progress report so that I could be proud of how much my baby can regurgitate.
“Oh no. Ok. One of us will be there as soon as we can.”
After a few phone calls back and forth seeing who could get out of which meetings/jobs the fastest, Spence left his (13th!) day at his new job, picked up our sad little sugarbean who was wearing a floral dress with “NAME OF PRESCHOOL” written in permanent marker on the front, which I assume she was changed into after her backup outfit was puked on (judging from the 2nd call I got, 10 minutes after the initial one, saying, “Yeah. So, Jane threw up again. A lot.”).
Score: 10.5 days at school, 4.5 at home. SEVERAL LOADS OF LAUNDRY.
Last week was the first that JS went to school all 5 days. WooHoo! But, Saturday she ran a fever and sneezed/coughed/whined all over the place.
Blahblahblahsickathome. Spence got sick for a few days somewhere in there. I don’t know when. I blame it on being delirious, myself. I missed my book club, which I look forward to as a girl’s night out every month. Today, I finally admitted that I had felt punk since the first day I stayed home with her, went to the doc this a.m. and tested positive for Strep and a sinus infection, and am at home in bed.
I know that in the big scheme of things, this is small potatoes, but holy hell. I am glad that children “learn to share” at preschool, I just wish we could keep it to toys and crayons, and leave the nasty, germy stuff on movie theater seats, where it belongs.
I’m all caught up on my HGTV shows and past episodes of Parenthood, though!
David Bromstad: We get it. You’re gay. We love you! But, enough with the hair product and tanning. The fancy jeans, tank tops, and tribal tattoos are sufficient.
Sarah Richardson: I am crushing HARD on your spaces. Glad you grew your hair back out because that bob only worked on Catherine Zeta-Jones and Gloria Vanderbilt.
Candice Olsen: Do something different. We know you can light the crap out of a room and love Hollywood Regency style, but in 5 years that room will look dated. How long will Ikat and Moorish patterns be en vogue? Save it for the pillows. If I see another gas insert fireplace at art-hanging height, I may have to boycott your shows for a while.
Genevieve Gorder: You hit and then, miss. Hard. But, you seem like a chick I would want to split a bottle of wine with. Also? You don’t have to drape every wall “to add texture.”
Emily Henderson: YES! Chose you for the Design Star and you have not disappointed.
Peter Krause: Marry me. Oh wait. You kinda did.

EVEN PLAYTIME IS ORGANIZED

Sun, 27 Mar 2011 14:03:21 -0500

By Krissy Bertrand

I had an epiphany the other day because I realized that a lot of my frustration with Dylan stems from traits that I see in him that are exactly like me. Here is a list (because that's how we roll over here).

It pains me to admit this, but his whining is probably 'most' of my fault. It's pointed out to me by a party who shall remain nameless (because I would like to rip his head off at times) that I sound whiny when I'm reprimanding him. I get so irritated when he whines, but allegedly I am just as guilty...

2. Today he had a conversation with daddy that went a little something like this...
Kelly - Do you want to go outside and play catch?
Dylan - Yes, and then we come inside I can eat lunch?
Kelly - Yes.
Dylan - After I eat lunch I can play for a little while, then it's nap time right?
Kelly - Yes.
Dylan - So we can play catch, I can eat lunch, play, and then take a nap, ok??
Kelly - I think we've established this.

So, he's a tad bit of a planner. I was getting irritated at his listing mania when I realized that I do the SAME thing to Kelly all the time! From planning meals to planning our vacations five years in advance, I'm not happy unless I've got some kind of plan.

3. He has a little perfectionist in him. He has to finish doing what he's started before he can do something else...if he's started putting all of his cars into the laundry basket, so help you if you tell him he needs to get dressed. It bugs the crap out of me when he does that - especially when it's time to go to school so mama can have some quiet time. However, it makes me almost ill to not finish what I've started. Ahem, laundry pile, I'm looking at you! Your unfolded chaos is driving me cccccrazy!

And finally...

He is ORGANIZED! This pleases me to no end! He cleans up his playroom like a rockstar! All of his picture labeled bins were a brilliant idea (props to the awesome person - yours truly - who came up with that little gem of an idea)! All of the cars are in the car bin, all of the balls are in the ball bin (hee hee), and all of the puzzles make it into the puzzle bin. And, he even plays in an organized fashion...can you tell we've been reading our Dinosaur Train books?

You can't see it in the picture, but all the palm trees and rocks are lined up so that the dinosaurs each have access to them.

I'm going to try and ease my frustration with the knowledge that my firstborn will have goals and plans and the demeanor to follow through with them OR he will just whine until he gets his way. I'm good either way!

*Editor’s Note - CONGRATULATIONS, KRISSY on welcoming baby/boy/l’il bruiser #2, J.W.! Love to you, Kelly, Dylan, and our newest member of the tribe!

PLUM TUCKERED

Wed, 16 Feb 2011 20:56:00 -0600

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

Man, I’m tired. Don’t you hate that? Not being tired, obvs, but when people tell you how tiiiiired they are?
“How are you?”
“Tired.”
“Oh, please. Get over it, Eeyore.”
(That’s what I always think when people say that, anyway.)
And now? Karma must be biting her thumb at me, because, damn. I feel it.
Exhausted.
To my bones.
And, y’all? I’m not getting up before the Amish. I’m not cocktailing after hours. There is no hard labor, no harvesting of any kind, no lugging buckets of various sizes over of treacherous terrain. No axe swinging. Nary a sweat broken.
I mean. My life? It is pretty cushy.
Work. Home. Other than the occasional social outing, that’s pretty much it.
(Ugh. Maybe I’m not tired. Maybe I just bored myself to tears over thinking about my schedule.)
And? I love my job. All of them.
But other than the one I’m getting paid for, I’m not particularly excelling at them. Wife. Mama. Friend. Sister. Daughter. Yeah, I am betting that if it was possible, I’d probably get fired after this last quarterly performance review.
I didn’t even send thank you notes for Christmas and VALENTINE’S day just blew past me. That hasn’t happened since I was what? 15?
Eh. We’re just adjusting. (That’s what I keep telling myself.)
Start to workout again! That will give you more energy, I rationalize while I jot “exercise” on my mental notepad.
Instead of actually doing it, I just fell asleep while watching an infomercial for workout DVDs...I already own.
It’s 8:32pm.
WTF?! (I should type that in lowercase letters and delete the exclamation point, though. Trust me - that right there is a total misrepresentation. I don’t have the energy for capitals.)
Any advice for revving things up? I have never been this tired.
Mentally.
Physically.
Emotionally.
Not sad by any means. Not depressed. Just...wiped.
And, I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t have the energy.

THE BATHTUB INCIDENT

Tue, 18 Jan 2011 07:20:39 -0600

By Michelle Wilson

My mother in law likes to buy the girls quirky gifts. In fact, they come in abundance, especially for birthday's and holidays. I get some too. In fact, the best one this year is the wall plaque that says "Mum is busy, take a number".

This last Christmas she sent Dylan, our 15 month old, a bear who dances in place, wearing a yellow rain coat while blaring "Singing In The Rain" I figure that's why she's been waking us up 3 times a night. Thanks, MIL.

Or what about the time the MIL sent one of those cups you attach to your waist... with a string and a ball...and you have to try and make a basket in to the ridiculously small hole. I bet you have one of those!

The best gift though, was a box of "bath tub crayons"...who knew?! Crayons made especially for the tub! So we tried them out - OH the art work was amazing! All over the walls, the sides of the tub... All that mess stays in one spot and the big-spray- wand-shower-head-thingy can just spray it all clean!

One day the kids were playing in the tub creating bath tub masterpieces and our 2 1/2 year old started screaming and bouncing "OW OW OWWWWEEEEE!!!!!" over and over again. All the thoughts were swirling in my head. Have you ever had a moment like that? When you can combine 10 thoughts in to one second?

She's not bleeding?
No soap is in her eyes?
Is there crayon water in her eye?
Are these crayons poisonous?
Did she eat a crayon?
Is she going to die?
Her sister looks innocent!

So - I start yelling over the OWWW's!! "WHAT? WHAT'S WRONG? Why are you SCREAMING??"
Quickly, I do a body scan, rub her arms, her back, her head, her legs. NOTHING.
Then, I turned her over.
And.
And.
There's a crayon lodged between her cheeks. Yes, mother in law! a crayon LODGED BETWEEN HER BUM CHEEKS!!!!
So, I pulled it out. Gave it back to her and she drew me a nice picture.

A WOMAN’S WORK

Sat, 18 Dec 2010 17:05:46 -0600

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

I’ve gone back to work. Ha. BACK. As if keeping a constantly mobile baby from juggling knives doesn’t qualify. But, yes. Back to paycheck earning. Helping people implementing methods dictated by my brain much more so than my heart.
I grabbed my go-cup of coffee and smooched her quickly on the cheek. My husband kept telling me how proud he was of me, kissed me for the jillionth time, and when I stopped too long to watch him pick our 1 year old daughter up, I felt the lump swelling in my throat. I turned turned toward the door before he saw me staring, snatched my keys off the bar, and yelled, “Bye! Love you!”
“We love you, too!” he yelled back, as my key was dead-bolting the door.
Thank God I hadn’t done my makeup yet, because if I had, I would still be cleaning mascara off my face. I took a few swigs of coffee. Listened to the news. By the time the traffic report was on and I was a good 10 miles from the house, I had stopped sniffling.
Sitting in the parking lot, after applying the last swipe of my lip gloss, I was ready to go into the office.
In more ways than one.

TIDINGS OF JOY, INDEED!

Thu, 9 Dec 2010 10:29:01 -0600

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

Congratulations, Valerie on delivering a beautiful, healthy baby girl! You are the Ultimate is so many ways, and all of us here want to wish you and your husband the very best!
Hey, moms. What advice wold you give to the mother of a newborn?

AND MANY MORE

Wed, 3 Nov 2010 20:56:23 -0500

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

My daughter turned 1 year old yesterday. You know, I have read so many mothers’ blog posts to their children that I am a little stumped how to start mine. Although I love reading them and relate to the connection about which they pontificate, I don’t want to make this about ME and how I feel about her, and how MY life has changed. So, this is going to be about her. For her.
Jane Scarlett – you are a healthy, joyful, big girl.
Big in the best sense. You were a “big” newborn. Which meant you slept well and ate on schedule, and gave your mother a BIG (HUGE! ENORMOUS! MASSIVE!) sense of relief because sleep deprivation was never a big issue.
My long, tall Texan, you are in the 70th percentile for weight, and the 90th(!) for length, but the biggest thing about you is your personality. You smile with your entire body. When you see a loved one (especially your Daddy), your grin takes up your whole face, and you kick your legs so enthusiastically, that if your balance was properly tuned, I am quite sure that should I lower you from the perch of my hip, your little legs would carry you at a sprinter’s pace, and we’d have a Jane-shaped cut out in our front door.
You wake up singing and talk to me in languages I have yet to learn, but are so patient when I nod and try to reply. You say, “Da Dee Da Da Da” which makes your Daddy think he WON, but I assure him you just like The Police. You also can say Ma Ma, but never when looking at me. You’re probably thinking about me, though...right?
You exude bliss. When I come and get you from your crib, I jump into your room, start clapping, and sing what my Mama always sang to me: “Aaaaand when we take our nappy...we always wake up happy!” As soon as you see me and hear the first note, you get so overwhelmed with joy that sometimes you fall backwards, Nestea plunge style, onto your mattress, and giggle and wiggle until I pick you up.
You rarely fuss. Everyone comments on how “chill” you are, so when you do, I know that something is really wrong.
You crawl with purpose. You have places to go and things to do! You murmur as you do so, and it makes your daddy laugh because you look and sound like you are running through your to-do list out loud as you scurry to your next destination.
Your cousins make you laugh from your belly, and you throw back your head and squeal with delight when they tickle you or make silly faces.
You have discovered your shadow and play with “the other baby” on Mama and Daddy’s headboard in the early morning, after you first wake, and we bring you to our bed for a few snuggles and maybe some extra winks. And, oh, you love being in Mama and Daddy’s bed. We stand on either side and threaten to “get” you and you crawl to the middle of the bed, fall over in surrender, and just crack up in anticipation of being tickled.
You love dancing with your Daddy. You will crawl under his desk and up his legs, encouraging him to take what is now known as a “dance break.” He gladly cranks up the tunes and starts twirling you around as you laugh out loud and shriek gleefully.
You’re not picky about food or toys, shows or games. Unless we have company or are in an unfamiliar place, you go to sleep without argument. As you wind down for the day or before a nap, you take a handful of shirt of the person holding you, rubbing the fabric between your pointer finger and thumb. When you start to coo like a dove, we know you’re ready to go to bed.
You are a thinker. Often, you knit your brow while you study something new or if someone is saying something directly to you. Then, like a switch is flipped, you seem to get it, and light up.
You are a girlie girl. You are fascinated by any and all jewelry, and you love your dolls. Of course, I think you have a streak of feminist in you, because you love ripping out pages of your Mama’s fashion magazines.
You wave “hello” and “bye-bye” accordingly, as well as to people talking to you on the phone. And you dig the phone. Your eyes get as big as silver dollars and you open your mouth in happy wonder when people are talking to you. The video function on Mama’s phone is your favorite thing, but only if you are starring in the leading role in the movies you watch.
You are already generous. After using your pacifier for a little bit, you offer it to me, and then when I say, “No, thank you,” you just put it back in your mouth. You offer up smooches, especially to your Pop (I think you like his beard), and nuzzle into the neck of your family members who love you so very much.
Janie Cakes, you are so excited about...well...just about everything, and your enthusiasm is contagious.
I love seeing moments through your eyes. And, because of you, I am so excited about what’s next.
Happy Birthday, Shoogie.
Mama loves you BIGasthesky.
(Plus infinity...or whatever is the biggest thing ever. That much.)

TO THE VICTOR

Mon, 11 Oct 2010 09:21:17 -0500

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

I talk big. When my friends ask how I got Jane Scarlett to sleep through the night, I admit to “Ferberizing,” (letting her cry, checking on her intermittently, but just patting her head so that she learned to work it out and soothe herself) and thank my lucky stars that it only took 3 nights at no more than 30 minutes a pop, before she caved and realized that bedtime was for sleeping.
She has gone down around 7pm and slept 11 or 12 hour stretches for the last 8 months or so. I used to say that with an air of pride. Pretty puffed up, like I had won the sleep battle of ’10. (Here. Let me stare wistfully out my window, fondle my strand of pearls, and think back on the glory days. Ay, me.)
Oh, because there are exceptions.
For one, I am raising Little Miss Socialpants. If we have company or are visiting family, everything is thrown off. “Bedtime” is more of a concept at that point. It is dark outside and she’s had her last meal for the day. Other than that...rules? We don’t need no stinking rules!
She wants to be up (UP!) and part of the party (PAR-TAAAY!), and almost immediately when all the adults have said their “Goodnights” or the deadbolt clicks, my girl arches her back towards her room and breathes an audible sigh of relief when we lay her in her crib.
And secondly, teething has taken our naptime and nightly schedule, ripped it down the middle, torn it up into confetti, tossed it in the air, and done a pretty impressive moonwalk on the scraps.
So, now when it is time for those in our household who don’t meet the height requirements to board Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride to hit the hay, I cross my fingers, count to ten, walk backward nine paces, spin three times, and fist bump the gods of sleep while en route to tuck Jane in.
Sometimes, it works.
And then? Well, then there are those evenings when her head rotates 360 degrees several times, and I have to power-wash the pea soup off her nursery walls.
I have started to break down, if that’s what you want to call it, and just try to read her cues. I never let her cry too long when we have company or when we are visiting family. That’s just not an argument I want to have (a battle of wills with a not-even-one-year-old ) in front of anyone other than people who get mail at our house. So, if some of my neighbors or the previous residents want to come by and witness this little nighttime duel, I guess it’s on.
I fret over this - knowing what to do when Jane Scarlett and I arm-wrestle over when she needs to turn in. What if I am doing this wrong and screwing everything up? What if she is one of those kids who dig in their heels and scream at the top of her lungs every night when we attempt to put her to bed...until she’s 15? What if babysitters see our name on their caller I.D., roll their eyes, and go back to making out with their boyfriends? I mean it is a slippery slope, people!
Last night, she only fussed for 5 minutes before conking out. I did my little victory dance and continued with the adult portion of the day. (Read: I ate dinner, and afterward, poured myself a drink and started my book.)
But, then...since no one likes a cocky Mama...she was up at 2:30 this morning.
After changing her diaper, I attempted to just put her back down, and while I was shuffling back to bed, she started shrieking with such determination, and in such a high key, I took a few steps away from the windows, afraid they’d shatter, and later, police would shake their heads over my poor shredded, splatter-painted Mtv tank-topped body (Um...embarrassing!), while my husband explained that he had always suspected that when I said “French” I had really meant “Dolphin” when listing the origins of my ethnic makeup.
Although the key changed a few times, the intensity didn’t, and for 35 minutes I stared at the ceiling in the dark, my gut knotting itself into a sailor’s Rubik's Cube.
Finally, I stripped my pillowcase, waved it as a sign of surrender, and made my way across the house. As soon as I opened the door, my adorably footie pajama-ed baby took a deep breath and exhaled, as if to say, “Ah, you’ve come to your senses. There is no shame in admitting defeat. Just think of how many lives were spared!”
I picked her up, cradled her in my arms, and sunk into our rocking chair. She instantly calmed, accepted the pacifier (that she had ritualistically hurled at the door when I didn’t immediately respond to her - ahem - “calling” me), and I succumbed to the victor.
But...as she tickled imaginary piano keys on my neck and along my collarbone, as I stared at her cherubic face highlighted by the glow of her flickering nightlight, buried my nose in her wispy hair, and inhaled her lovely baby smell...I didn’t feel like I had lost anything.
Not even a little bit.

DETOXIFYING YOUR LIFE

Thu, 26 Aug 2010 20:02:44 -0500

By Heather Feeler

I heard the other day on the radio that one of the best things you can do for your body is to drink hot water with lemon every morning. It's nature's best detoxifier. Your liver will love you, absolutely love you, after only a few short days of this hot lemonade tonic. Sounds simple, right? Then again, this is me we are talking about.

I agonized for days on whether I should buy fresh lemons or the juice in that plastic yellow lemon bottle. Fresh lemons are best, I know, but they always seem to slide to the back of our fridge and shrivel up. I can't tell you how many 99-cent lemons I've wasted in my lifetime (you might hate me if I even try to give you an estimate). Then when I called my husband in the middle of the day to ask his opinion on the lemon saga, he was kind of rude. To me. About lemons.

I buy the fresh lemons (in a huff!). The radio guy says to drink it first thing in the morning because this is what your liver really likes, so I make a mental note to make this the first step in my day. Get up, stretch, then quietly drink your detoxifier. If I lived in a normal house, this might be doable, but my house is a circus, complete with two baby cubs and a dog that always need my attention. I'm lucky if manage to get a hot cup of coffee before mid-morning.

It's been three weeks. No morning detoxifier. Tonight, however, I am turning things around and trying my first hot water with fresh lemon (well, a three-week old and slightly wrinkled lemon) while I write this. Kids and hubby are in bed and, unfortunately, the dog is licking himself with unrelenting determination next to my chair. It's a sound that drives me crazy. The drink, thank goodness, tastes just fine.

I wonder if we can really detoxify our body and our lives with one single step. Is it as easy as squeezing fresh lemons in hot water and chugging it down? I think our lives are moving at such a warp speed that we will cling to any solution that might claim to help us, or save us, or simplify us. We are willing to let random people on the radio direct our lives in rush hour instead of slowing down to reflect on how our lives got here, hectic and perhaps a little hairy.

Perhaps the true detox comes when we accept our major role in making our lives what they are (because we do, after all, fill it up) and then, miraculously, choosing to embrace it or change it. We each have the power to do both though we often choose to do neither. And for those, like me, who are comfortable with worry and constant fatigue, might I suggest starting slow with some quiet time, or semi-quiet time if you have a dog, to enjoy a nice steaming cup of lemon water. It's a start and your liver will absolutely love you.

YES, I DO!

Mon, 19 Jul 2010 08:59:18 -0500

By Heather Feeler

When I got married 10 years ago, I had long curly hair, a college diploma with the ink barely dry, a whole plethora of life experiences (I thought!) in my back pocket. I was 22, but I felt 32. People constantly asked if I was ready to get married, being so young and all, and I remember thinking that they knew absolutely nothing about me. I was mature and energetic. I was ambitious, but kind. And above all us, I was loyal, through the good and the bad.

I had no flippin' idea. Marriage was actually work, really hard work at that. This person who wooed me and loved me and read poetry to me turned out to be the least romantic husband in the world. It's like the wedding package was all bright and shiny, but the marriage center was kind of gooey and tart. I already took a bite, so it was too late to return it to the store.

Today, it's been 10 years since we took our vows. I am 32, but I feel 42. I am still the wife to one, but now a mother to two. Life is so exhausting that I rarely think about the day I wore white and promised to love, honor and cherish. I hardly know the girl I was. I have, however, gained a few more life experiences, which is good because the jeans are a little bigger these days, too.

If I could give advice to a soon-to-be-bride, who, like me, is young and a tad foolish for the bright, shiny package of marriage, here is what I would say:

• Nothing can prepare you for your new husband moving his stuff into your one bedroom apartment in trash bags then asking where he should hang his black light. Do not be afraid. It may take 10-15 years, but he may mature into something really amazing, especially with your love and acceptance. Then again, he may not.
• There are five love languages. Know your own, but especially know your husbands. You are wasting your energy doing four other love languages when, really, all you need to focus in on is one--his. It helps to tape your love language to the bathroom mirror, so he reads what you need every morning of his life.
• Nobody is perfect. If you can't forget, at least try to forgive. You may sacrifice more, hurt more, give more, love more than you ever imagined, but there are great rewards. The ironic part is that you might not always see those rewards. Keep working on it anyway.
• In the first year of marriage, go through a Dave Ramsey Financial Peace class, so you the last thing you have to worry about is your finances. Also, please don't play the lottery. Being rich gets you in as much trouble as being poor. Aim for the middle, or a little higher, I say.
• Never mention divorce in jest or in anger. I truly believe saying the word gives it power over your relationship. It's like a seed in the bottom of your heart. It may grow sprouts at the oddest time and push all the other good stuff right out of the way.
• Lastly, be careful of all marriage advice from others, including the information above. Every person is different, so is every marriage. Cookie cutter advice only works well when making cookies, not when talking about relationships or people.

I can honestly say I love my husband more today than I did when we got married. He also drives me just as crazy. It's our anniversary and we made a wonderful family meal in the kitchen together with our kids, which just tugs on the heart strings, but now I've got to go clean up in the kitchen all by myself. He's on the couch, sprawled out, laughing hysterically at the TV.

This is my married life, the good and the bad. I do, I do, I do.

Dear 20-YEAR-OLD A*

Wed, 16 Jun 2010 08:50:57 -0500

By Andrea J. Shipman
*The project continues! Thank you Cassie!

Dear 20 year-old A* -

South Beach can wait. Read this first and then go enjoy a frozen cosmo.

You had a tough year last year, didn't you? Don't be afraid. Right or wrong, you made a decision that worked out well for you.

Stop worrying about your still-living-at-home status, you're banking some experience and cash. It pays off. On that note - no, you aren't your mom but give her some credit because it could be so much worse. Yes, they spoil your brother and always will. But they are so, so proud of you. Ok, they're a little worried as you ARE twenty and pretty hot.

Oh those white shorts? Look amazing on you. Wear them as much as possible since it's Florida and your ass has never looked better in a pair of size 6s.

Also amazing - your gays. You're finding them now and while many will fall away, several will be your foundation for the next few years. Lean on them, they're not all sass and flair.

Use your voice. As much as possible. Your thoughts COUNT and you are so smart. Stop secretly thinking everyone out there is smarter than you, they just aren't afraid to be wrong.
BE WRONG. IT'S OK.

No one will ever care about your major. Ever. Just study and finish it out. Oh, that statistics all-nighter works out just fine by the way. And you will NEVER need statistics or that report again. True story.

All that Miami-ness, the chusmeria around you? Soak it in. Your heritage, your affinity for the Cuban tongue (yeah, insert inevitable dirty joke here) is glorious. People will check with you for authentic Cuban restaurants so eat up all the platanos, palomilla and frijoles you can shove your face into.

Enjoy the flirty kisses, silly conversations and all that attention you're getting. Yes, they like you. They want to see you naked. They're GUYS. You have boobs. It's what they do. Jump in and bask a little.

You think you're crazy. Anxious? Yes. Type-A? Definitely. These things don't make you crazy. Trust me, you don't know from crazy yet. You will meet crazy but not BE crazy.

Kiss your grandfather. Often. You're the best thing in his life.

Look A*, I am not going to sugarcoat or spoil it. You're going to make some missteps and wind up where you don't want to. It will all lead to the right place and the right person. Embrace the changes, accept your beauty and laugh out loud as often as you can.

Enjoy that cosmo. And don't be afraid to shake your ass a little more tonight - it burns some extra calories.

Love,
30-something A*

THE TRUE STORY OF COUPONS AND HOME COOKING

Fri, 11 Jun 2010 07:43:16 -0500

By Krissy Bertrand

Once we moved back to the States, I had a grand plan of clipping coupons to take advantage of those fantastic deals. I bought a Sunday paper ($1.75 I think) and started flipping through the glossy pages like a treasure hunter. No such luck. We eat a minimum of pre-packaged items and ready to serve foods. I rarely buy any brand of body wash, diapers, or other toiletries. AND, that's really all the coupons were for! I think I was able to cut one out for Goldfish crackers (.50) and one for deodorant (.25). Obviously you can do the math on that. I didn't even recoup my paper cost.

Here's the kicker though. I don't spend tons of money on groceries. If I want to make rice, I use some from the huge bag of basmati rice (10 pound bag or so) that I bought, not Rice A Roni. If I need chicken stock, I use the stuff I made myself in the freezer (it's conveniently measured in 1 cup portions in baggies), not a can. My grocery trips are short and easy because I rarely have to travel through the aisles; my focus is typically on the perimeter. We don't eat meat every night with dinner and we have multiple veggies each night.

I enjoy cooking so some of these methods might be tedious for some (making the stock...), but the food is SO much better. And, it's extremely easy to roast a chicken. Cooking time is a little bit longer than a 30 minute dinner, but active time is low (plus you can throw your veggies in the roasting pan with the bird). Tossing that chicken carcass in a pot with water and leftover veggies to boil down to make your own stock is also very EASY! Plus, it makes several cups of stock which can easily be frozen in Ziploc bags for later use.

It's EASY to chop up a head of broccoli and steam it for dinner. Easier than a can of veggies? Maybe not, but with the 3-5 minutes it takes to wash and chop, the taste is phenomenally better (not to mention the added health benefits).

I think sometimes we have preconceptions of what is too time consuming or what we think is difficult, but actually don't evaluate the true effort a task might take. Next time you think you don't want to put forth the effort to make rice, read the ingredient list on that boxed mix. How many does it have? Mine has one.

Dear 20-YEAR-OLD JULES,

Tue, 8 Jun 2010 11:14:28 -0500

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

Maggie Mason of Mighty Girl wrote a post recently that got me thinking...
She wrote a letter to her 20-year-old self. I loved the idea, (given to her by the talented young lady, Cassie Boorn) so I ganked it.
Dear 20-year-old Jules,
Girl, if I could actually be in front of you right now, I’d raise my hand in the air and offer you a high-five. Sure. High-fives are kind of dorky and cheeseball, but let’s face it: so are you. Good for you for starting to embrace that more.
Life’s not such a cakewalk for you right now, huh? Yep. I remember. And although you have had your fair share of “difficult” in the past, I know this is the first time you really let yourself feel the hurt rather than plastering on the smile and telling a joke to make those around you feel more comfortable about you being “ok.”
Oh, and if I did the math correctly, you are starting to go through another breakup. Yeah. That’s rough. Not so much because you lost a boyfriend, but because you lost your best friend. I am here to assure you, you’re going to have plenty of those. Boyfriends? Yes. Best friends? YES! Emphatically, yes! Pay attention to those friendships. Nurture them. They will enrich your life beyond measure.
You know how you recently started going to class in whatever you were wearing the night before? How you can’t sleep? That inkling that maybe you needed to talk to someone? Don’t be scared. You’re going to do the right thing by letting an objective party into your past. And...It will suck. Truly. You’ll cry a lot. You’ll drink a lot. You’ll start to own and wield the power you can have over members of the opposite sex. A lot. And you will have moments when you feel guilty about all of that.
Don’t.
Remember this: The only way out is through.
That little pearl carries you through those rough patches later on, so you may as well start using it as a mantra now. Know what else? The person who actually told you that does most of the heavy lifting for you later. His love and friendship are the jacket laid down over a rain puddle, except knowing you, that rain puddle is more like the Grand Canyon. Don’t worry. With him, miraculously, there is always enough material to cover it.
And all those frogs you kissed were worth it. Remember them fondly, and appreciate how they made you better...and how they led you to him.
I don’t want to give away the intricacies of your life’s plotline, but taking the leap and moving to New York City will be one of the best decisions you make in your young life. Go on with your badass self and enjoy it.
I know you get caught up in pleasing everyone. And in getting the approval of those you love the most. Let me save you some fretting. Those people? The ones who REALLY love you the most? Want YOU to do what’s right for YOU. They care as much about your happiness as they do their own. Those other, more peripheral people? Their opinion of you doesn’t matter anyway.
And honey, go ahead and wear that outrageous outfit. Your body is slammin’. Quit nitpicking and appreciate how healthy it is and all it does (and will do!) for you.
(Um...But, enough with the sweater-vests. Seriously.)
While we’re on the topic of your body, THANK YOU for being a bit maniacal about the eye creams and moisturizer. It pays off.
What else can I tell you? Oh, yeah.
Don’t stress so much about your grades. You are working so hard to be one of eleven graduating with honors from your college in your class. And no one will care. Ever.
Wear sunscreen.
Drink more water.
Take ibuprofen before you go out for the night.
Keep a twenty tucked in your bra. A cab costs about that much to get home from wherever you are in Manhattan, and pickpockets just want your wallet.
More importantly....
Continue to passionately fall in love...with people, with experiences, with life.
Now, get some sleep.
But start waking up a little earlier, because it gets really good, and you don’t want to miss any of it.

I love you bigasthesky,
Your 32-year-old (admittedly awesome) Self

WHY WE’RE NOT HAVING A WEDDING

Sun, 16 May 2010 09:40:45 -0500

By Allison Rae Carlsen

I’M GETTING MARRIED!
So..that’s exciting. But we’re not having a wedding.
We’re not having a wedding and yet I have an email folder for “wedding stuff”. And a “wedding to-do” list. As I was sitting here just now looking at the list, I smiled.
“wedding rings” *smile*
“write vows” *smile* (okay, okay fine…*tear*)
The wedding basics. And that’s all we have, folks. Me, him, a coupla’ witnesses, and the person to make it all official. 10 minutes and out. We’re married.
This is how we want it. If we were going to have a small wedding for only our closest friends and relatives, it would still be 50 people. Of the 15 or so “essential” people I would need at my side, 10 of them live out of town. Not just out of town, out of state. Not just out of state, out of time zone.
Then there’s flowers. And the rehearsal dinner. And the reception. And music. And picking the right DJ for the right times with the right playlist and making sure he plays the right version of the first dance song and forgoing the awkward father-daughter dance moment and hoping no one notices and putting in writing that there will be absolutely no garter toss. And designing and having the cake delivered and worrying about it not melting. And my flat hair. And feuding aunts and uncles and awkward friends. Seating charts. Vegetarian options. Pew bows. Paying for the pew bows and the cake and the DJ…

This is why we’re not having a wedding.

I’ve been to dozens of weddings. I’ve been to magnificent weddings. I’ve been to atrocious weddings. From richer to poorer, I’ve just about seen them all. So, I feel like I’m pretty much covered. My partner and I simply want to formalize the commitment we have already made to each other. I would like for the moment itself to be special, but nothing really more than that. My friends and my family know that I love them. They know that if it were possible, I would have them all around me while I state my intentions to be with this person forever. But it’s not possible. And they know, without having to see or hear me say it, that it’s true. I will be with this person forever, as long as we both shall live. I plan to tell him that each and every day, not just on the day that we’re married. And that’s why we’re not having a wedding.

The Birth of The Sweetest Baby Ever, No really, Mine is the cutest - PART 2

Fri, 7 May 2010 22:25:47 -0500

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

Where was I? Oh, yeah. Right. The waiting.
A little back story – I was in the “the business” (that’s the pretentious way of saying, the Theahtah, dahling), for more than a while, and in the interest of full disclosure (as if reading about my birthing experience wasn’t intimate enough) every time the overture played, I would...How do I put this delicately? I would hurl.
Opening night, for the duration of the run, heck – even a final dress rehearsal would get me so worked up, I would either have to cry (which is how I pretty much vent every single emotion) or vomit. Turns out, crying really does a number to false eyelashes caked with mascara so thick and laquery one could use it to redo a hotrod’s paint job. Unless I was playing a televangelist, that just wasn’t going to work the majority of the time. So...that only left one other option.
I was never incapacitated by stage fright, but just the anticipation and nervous, excited energy would cause me to yak. I knew it would happen, would start to dread it every time the lights dimmed behind the curtain, but prepared accordingly. I got really good about keeping my hair and makeup in tact, and thanks to one hardass costume mistress who swore she’d brain me if she had to shout-out another spot of grodiness off a white blouse, I even got in the habit of tucking a towel into my bra straps to protect my duds.
Therefore, I was shocked (GOBSMACKED, for all you Brits) that during the HOURS I was awaiting the arrival of our baby, and kind of, um...fearing the actual delivery...I didn’t puke. Thought about it. Kind of almost did once, but I guess I am a bona fide grown up because I handled my nerves, got myself together, and kept whatever was still left in my system from traveling back up that one long tube that goes from your mouth to your stomach like they show in the old Pepto Bismol commercials. I don’t care if “not throwing up because of irrational jitters” isn’t what constitutes being an adult. I was proud of myself. That may seem really dumb, but there you go. I never promised you a rose garden of rational thinking.
Ok, so remember what I told you last time about the nurses telling me to go as long as I thought I could without getting checked again otherwise I might have to push without the baby being engaged? Well, blip blap bloop, and that time had come. I was checked and the baby was engaged, and then the nurses told me that it was time to try some “practice pushes.”
What does that mean, “practice pushes?” Was that just squinting my eyes and grunting without doing anything, you know, “down there”? Who’s ever heard of rehearsal pushing? What I found out they meant was, “ok, now you’re going to try and push, but it kind of feels like you’re not really accomplishing anything, and that term was coined to make you feel less unproductive.”
So, I was “practice pushing” before the doctor had arrived and ohmigosh! Sidebar! I forgot. I never introduced you to my team. Meet the players:
1) My husband. My rock. My calm and controlled sweetie.
2) My supportive younger sister who smiled and nodded and held the camera at an appropriate angle so as to not scar all future “baby’s debut” viewers for the rest of their lives.
3) My caring older sister who flew in from Missouri to see Little Miss make her grand entrance, and who is pretty sure she knows everything since she’s been through this twice already, but who graciously and diplomatically bit her tongue and let me direct this circus, you know, for the most part.
So there we were. A motley crew of goofballs, who frankly, manage to get things done with slightly less grace than the Keystone Cops in the most organized of situations, with even the most predictable of variables. My baby sister, Martin Scorsese, was behind me shooting from over my shoulder, my older sister was to my left, responsible for holding my knee, and my husband on the other side, holding my right leg, while also handling the counting and the focusing. You know...an intimate grouping of people who are very important to me. Those 3. And, of course, a clown car’s worth of doctors and nurses who, after the first push, started talking to me like I was a 5 year old.
With self esteem issues.
Who was just learning how to ride a bike.
“Ok, Julie. You are doing so great. That was a really good try. Now, I want you to try eeeee-ven harder. You can do it, ok? Ok? Rest a minute, and we’ll give it another go.”
And then I heard something in my left ear... a very soft “good job.”
That’s right.
...
It was Jesus.
...
Just kidding. But did that get your attention? I just wanted to make sure you were still with me.
It was really one of my sisters. I don’t know which one, but I smacked whoever was closest.
“Do NOT speak. Do not encourage me. I will die laughing and not be able to hold my breath.”
I mean, really. I know you’re supposed to handle pregnant women with care, and we’ve all been conditioned to think that when they are in the throes of childbirth, the heads of perfectly sane women will spin 360 degrees multiple times, start spewing profanity that would make Andrew Dice Clay blush, and curse the jerk that got them into these stirrups. But...no.
At least not for me. I was fine. I felt ready, and although nervous, my eyes were on the prize. But I guess if you work in L&D, you prepare for the worst possible mom-to-be scenario, and treat your patients with kid gloves. Everyone was so sugary and encouraging, they should’ve had pom poms, worn way too much makeup, and hair ribbons that coordinated with their scrubs.
I was really trying to tune them out and just listen to my husband counting to 10. Which, by the way, if you ever want to feel what it’s like to be in real life slow-mo, all you have to do is be in the “pushing” phase of childbirth and listen to your birth coach count. For the love of all that is good and holy, I was wondering if he had an undetected learning disability, because OH MY GOD, COUNT FASTER. Turns out, he isn’t supposed to, which I knew, but STILL.
Meanwhile, on my left side, my older sister has jerked my knee so far toward my ear that I heard an audible POP and thought, “Great. My leg is now dislocated from my hip,” and after a fleeting thought that I probably looked like some kind of deformed doll whose leg popped out of its plastic socket, but was held in place by the sheer will of a pant leg, I was focused on the backs of my eyelids again.
The doctor came in, and there was a lot of hustle and bustle, and “way to go, Julie-ing,” but at that point, I kind of zoned. I started visualizing our family. Our little threesome. I thought about this wonderful partner who found me. I saw a little girl laughing. I saw the two of them together, smiling at me. Almost waiting for and willing me to make this vision a reality. Tears were streaming down my face at this point, I am sure.
I pushed for a total of 45 minutes. About 42 minutes in, I finally opened my eyes, looked at the doctor and said, “Listen. I am a very goal oriented person. How many more pushes? 2? 10? Give me a number so I can see the end of this thing.”
“6,” she said. “Tops.”
I closed my eyes and visualized my baby. I could not wait to see her. To hold her. To kiss her. Sing to her. I wanted that soooo much.
Not to mention, I wanted the 87 kagillion kilotons of pressure on my name and address to be relieved. I mean, I wasn’t in pain, but the pressure during those last few pushes was really, really uncomfortable.
I heard my sisters saying, “She’s right there! She’s almost here!”
I heard my doctor encouraging me. “That’s it, Julie. Focus.”
I heard my husband’s soothing baritone. “Seven, eight, nine...”
And then, 2 pushes later, I heard her.
Over all the kind of collective jubilation in the room, I heard that soft newborn cry, leaned my head back, squeezed my eyes shut, and wept freely.
“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,” I said over and over in my head.
In a blur, they gave her to me while we were still attached, and I scanned her little fingers and toes, looked at her swollen, little body, and then saw that pouty bottom lip, and smiled.
And laughed.
And cried.
But! I did not throw up.
Maybe it was because this is a role I always knew I was born to play.

AT LEAST WE WEREN’T UP THAT INFAMOUS CREEK WTHOUT A PADDLE

Sat, 17 Apr 2010 10:45:39 -0500

By Michelle Wilson

Having a 3rd child has reminded me to STOP, slow down and do what is important - Like giving Brooke (3yr) the extra hugs she needs and watching Anna (6) practice numbers and letters that she just learned in school...

I'm really trying to "enjoy the moment" and not get caught up in the breakfast mess or the large piles of laundry and to remember to laugh about those moments when I really can't do anything but laugh - like the time when the shit hit the fan- LITERALLY!

It was 3 am and I had just finished feeding Dylan and she needed to be changed. While I was changing her - she exploded - or to be technical, she shot poop at me in full force. It totally took me by surprise - 3 days old and she just shot poop so far that it hit the fan...Really? The shit just hit the fan!? Literally! I looked around the room, my husband is snoring away - no one to share this experience with...no one to laugh with - and at the same time thinking - what the bleep do I do now? Do I clean her up first? Do I clean me up first? The fan? The fan that is on medium speed with shit stuck to it? So I told myself...one thing at a time...Laugh first, clean baby, change my clothes, then clean the shit off the fan.

The Birth of The Sweetest Baby Ever, No really, Mine is the cutest - PART 1

Thu, 15 Apr 2010 11:26:31 -0500

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

I am sitting here on the deck in the first day of the year that has jumped over 80 degrees...listening to the birds chirping and a lawnmower as white noise from somewhere in the neighborhood, while the baby monitor is registering that my 5-month-old baby is softly protesting her afternoon nap. My 5-month-old baby. FIVE.
These last months, to borrow a total cliché, have flown by. I blinked and here she is, holding her head up, rolling over, and giggling. Real giggles. Giggles that come from her belly and stay in the back of her throat, so much so that when we hear them, it sounds so earthy - as though a Blues singer, not a 5-month old (!!!) baby, has just found something amusing.
5 months old. And I haven’t even yet written about her birth.
I won’t use this entry up on why I knew I always wanted to be a Mama (in summary - mostly because I had such a good one – one who injected magic into even the most trying of circumstances) or on the incredible man I married, and the marriage that made me excited to have a child with this wonderful partner. I won’t write about the pregnancy either. How many times does someone need to read about heartburn, really? No – this is about her arrival. That’s the most important part anyway.
I checked into the hospital at 5:00 on a Sunday evening. We didn’t race to the hospital because my water had broken in the middle of the night. I never grabbed my swollen middle, gave an all-knowing, earth-mothery glance to my hubs, and said, “It’s time, honey.” No speed limits were broken. I wasn’t hoo hoo hee heeing on the way, eyes as big as silver dollars, digging my nails into my husband’s arm because THE PAIN, OHGODTHEPAAAAAAIIIIN! It was so NOT the labor scenes we’ve all seen in movies. I wasn’t even contracting within the 5-7 minute window they tell you about in the childbirth classes. None of that drama for us. We had actually planned that I would get induced on her due date if she hadn’t already made her grand entrance, and apparently my hostessing prowess not only extends to my kitchen, my guest bedroom, and my living room, but my uterus as well, as Little Miss got pretty cozy. I think she even got a subscription to Elle Décor and was picking out backsplash tiles, but that is just a theory.
(I had saved that part about getting induced from being shouted from the rooftops until now, because of all the controversy around inducing labor, but there you go. That’s the way we decided to get this here baby birthed, and whadya know – I got to bring a cute little chunk of adorable home and the earth wasn’t hit by a fiery meteor! Chalk one up for me and mankind, both.)
So, after we grabbed some fish tacos and cilantro-laden guacamole as my “last meal” for a while, we calmly walked into the hospital, holding hands, grinning like big goofballs to each other, checked in like we were at the Marriott Convention Center, and were shown to our room by a nice woman with a clipboard.
I was then told to get naked while a chick asked me a lot of questions about my past. (Which got me looking around to check if this actually was the Marriott Convention Center as this really felt a lot like the last sales conference I went to. Bad Dum Bum. I’ll be here all week.)
I changed into a hand-me-down nursing nightgown that had two slits over the breast area – kind of an unsexy, upper body version of crotchless panties. I just reread that and it sounds like I think crotchless panties are sexy, which I hadn’t thought of before now, but now that I am thinking of it...my vote is no. Glad we got that cleared up. Before I decided on wearing this gown, (Did I think I was getting ready for the Oscars?) I had tried on the standard hospital issue that was this sad and enormous army greenish tarp with military lettering spelling out the hospital’s name stenciled on the side. Obviously, they wanted people to know which house this number was designed by, but it kind of skeeved me out thinking that blood and guts and stuff that was once inside someone’s body may have been (strike that – definitely was because what is that stain? EW!) on this gown. So, yeah. And, you know, I already felt kind of grody and exposed, and when I greeted my little girl I wanted to have something on that didn’t look like it was made by Texas Tent and Awning.
Blah blah blah and then I got an I.V. and kids, (SPOILER ALERT!) let me go on the record and say that THAT was the most painful part of my labor and delivery. Seriously. [Shrugging.] Sorry, ladies who went the “natural childbirth” route. Although I respect any decision a woman makes when it comes to her own body, I truly don’t understand the need to experience your hoo-ha being stretched in such a way that the only thing that slips into your consciousness is Johnny Cash’s RING OF FIRE and you can actually taste colors, but, that’s why they make different patterned shirts. What looks good on you isn’t in my palette, so knock yourself out. This just wasn’t a time when I wanted to pretend I was on Little House on the Prairie. (Nope. That’s reserved only for when I eat stew.) As far as I am concerned, if there ever was a time during which to take advantage of modern science, my personal choice was, and ever shall remain, childbirth. Um, yes please. Half-pint needs an epidural.
Unlike other facets of my life where I plan everything within an inch of its existence, the extent of my birth plan was - and this is the unabridged version - “Get drugs. Leave with a healthy baby.” All the stuff that I hear some people dwell on like having their Ipod cued up so that Sunrise, Sunset plays at the moment the baby starts to crown...well, that wasn’t for me. Of course, I also shave my armpits.
I told my anesthetist that I had been practicing for these kind of drugs my whole life and that in addition to my spinal cord, I had two arms with healthy veins, if they had any extra...you know, “no-pain-guarantors” they could give me. That’s when my husband smirked at me because he knows what a Dudley do-right I am, and then was all hand-patty like, “Now, now. This isn’t the time to practice your stand up,” and gave me a look that conveyed, “Dude. These people are going to help us get a kid. They don’t know you’re kidding. Let’s not prove how crazy we are just yet.”
Then a nurse injected some [whachacalit] into my [lady bits] to [get the party started]. I believe those are all the technical terms. It wasn’t Cervidil, but some jelly-like ectoplasm goo that softened the cervix. That’s the step before the big guns like Pitocin get called in, and hoo, boy! Did it work. My water broke without the heavy drugs and, I am telling you, the Gods must have smiled upon the sacrificial lamb chops I offered a few weeks before, because that little event happened IN THE BATHROOM while I was (ahem) returning all the bags o’ fluid they had been giving me via an I.V. to the ocean. You have no idea how happy that made me. All toilet related activity gives me the heebie jeebies and to know that fluid (Ick. I hate that word. Fluid. Ughhh.) that was once inside of me was now safely (and daintily) in a porcelain American Standard instead of on my sheets or (Lord, I feel faint just thinking about it) on the floor...well, I felt like it was an omen things were going to go smoothly.
What happened next was a lot of nothing. It was 1am when my water broke, and aside from some minor discomfort every now and then when I contracted, I was able to sleep. I’d wake up every so often to watch the little line graph on the monitor, but then just drift off again.
After a few hours, a nurse came in with a big cart and a doctor followed saying, “Are you ready for your epidural?” I wasn’t too uncomfortable, but I didn’t want to be one of those chicks that is like, “no thank you, this is cake” and then, BAM! I’m blindsided by pain in my nether-regions, and then have someone wearing scrubs inform me that “we have passed the point when we could give you an epidural.” Um. No thank you.
The doctor asked my husband to step around to face me rather than look at the needle. I guess they don’t want any coaches gasping or flinching when they see that thing. Kind of like how in Elizabethan times, when a good executioner had the decency not to let their subject see the sword. You know. This was like DECENT executioner style, but without all the gruesome deathiness.
The doc was all business, which is exactly what you want when a nine-inch needle is being injected into your spinal cord. I barely felt a sting, and almost high fived the guy.
Blah blah blah, hours of contractions that I didn’t feel, so much so that I thought, “Hmmm, I wonder if I am really in labor or if these nurses are just yanking my chain.”
And then one contraction came along, and lo! It was a doozie. Considering that I had an epidural, I was under the impression that that shouldn’t be the case. I believe I looked at my older sister with eyes that said, “Um...no.” She got right on that and another doctor came in named, I kid you not, Dr. Wo.
Like, WHOA man, Dr. Wo. For some reason, this made me feel better, like his name had something to do with the effect of the drugs he was about to administer.
“Feeling some pain?”
[Sheepishly] “Yeeees?” [Like I needed to be embarrassed that I could still feel after I had my ration of drugs.]
“Ok, let’s give you a bump.”
“Oh, good. So, do you have anything that will make me wanna’ sing songs by The Doors?”
“Let me see what I can do.”
Well, whatever he did, Dr. Wo nailed it. I was alert and aware of everything happening, but properly numbed from the waist down.
(God, this seems so long and drawn out, but I guess 14 hours of labor calls for a bit of rambling.)
I was on oxygen a bit, which made me feel very hospitaly, and my nurses kept “checking” me to see how far along I was, but at some point, later in the game, they informed me that it was better to wait as long as I could before they checked me again - when I really felt pressure, and couldn’t take it anymore. Apparently, if you are checked and are at 10 centimeters, they call the doctor in, and you have to start pushing, no matter how engaged the baby is. For those of you who are less well read in pre-natal literature, “engaged” doesn’t mean how actively participatory the baby is about getting born, but rather the point in labor when the baby actually begins to descend into the pelvic canal. So the baby could still be chillin’ in your uterus without having budged, and if you’re dilated, you have to push without its help in getting the action going, which can be for way longer than necessary.
So, we waited. And waited.
...
Just like you have to do for the “big finish” to the story, because my little Supreme is now up from her nap, and is ooh ooh oohing. I have to go in and add the doo wops and sha na na nas.

FINE. I AM A CURMUDGEON.

Tue, 23 Feb 2010 11:45:33 -0600

By Andrea J. Shipman

At 29+ I find myself, surrounded by people who are fresh-faced, 20-somethings. Life's all bright and shiny and new. The recession, unemployment or HOLY SHIT BILLS have not yet taken a giant poop on their perfectly coiffed (you spent $300 on straightening?!?!) hair. I am not saying their stupid or shallow. Just ... TWENTY-SOMETHING. Most of them work hard, stay late and overindulge without a thought to calories. I did that once. We all did.

God that irks me now. Whatever. I am an Ensure away from calling them whippersnappers and shooing them away from my azaleas.

Occasionally one girl will come into work and my immediate thought is - "PANTS!" WEAR PANTS!" Tights are not pants people. Neither are sheer leggings.

What? I am judgy. The name of my site isn't "constantly joyous."

And why do they always want to go to dinner with 15 people? Seriously.

My max for group eating out is 6. Three facing three allows for good whole-table conversation or simple break out conversations. You only have to bug one person AT MOST to get up to pee. You can split two bottles of wine comfortably without paying through the nose or getting an inch of wine for $18. Bill calculation is far easier. Plus, your server is nicer & more attentive since your bill will be larger but your party is totally manageable. Everyone wins.

Also, there's a good chance that everyone at the table of 6 gets along and generally likes each other. MAYBE you can swing that with 8. But with 15? N-O.

Case in point: the lovely 20-somethings who want to "Do a girls dinner! Friday nite!" When I was approached I thought - why not? As a washed-up wife, hanging out with single girls can be fun. Especially when you come home to your sleeping husband and think I never have to do that dating bullshit again. Don't be fooled people. Marriage is knowing you will have sex even if you haven't shaved your legs in 2 weeks.

Then I got the email of "the plan." Fifteen people on the email (a few of whom I would not choose as a dining partner) for dinner at 8 so as to "not be in da clubs so early."
Sigh.

I declined after 20 more emails went out, one of which mentioned seeing some band at a sticky bar around midnight with some sort of cover charge. Instead, I am going to see a delicious one-year old toddler and her mom for free. Because I will be in bed by midnight or at least in my Target sweats watching What Not to Wear.

Now get away from my azaleas and help me find my glasses. My stories are on.

Veto Valentine’s Day!

Thu, 11 Feb 2010 17:19:29 -0600

By Krissy Bertrand

I'm not the horrible, cold hearted cynic you think I am. I like flowers as much as the next girl, BUT, you pay a premium on those flowers on the 14th. Please celebrate with your Valentine, but avoid the boxed chocolates, stuffed things, and all those plastic, white tents you see in the grocery store parking lots.

Celebrate instead with a nice meal (I did see ribeyes on sale...) at YOUR house and gasp...maybe some candles! A pink teddy bear that says "I love you" means nothing to me. My husband washing dishes and putting the kid to bed - now that's what lights my fire.

Just remember, that little heart shaped box of chocolates that you buy on the 14th for $15 will likely be $7.50 on the 15th. That, my friends, is a loss any way you look at it.

CRYING IT OUT

Tue, 26 Jan 2010 18:44:21 -0600

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

Yesterday, my darling Jane Scarlett turned 12 weeks old, and since she’s been banging the sides of her bassinet with her fists for the last two weeks, we decided to put our little percussionist in her crib last night at bedtime.
She slept from 10 pm until 4 am, which was when she cried for a feeding, but only nursed 15 minutes and conked out again. Only, this time...she drifted off in our bed (like she’s done since she was born - after which I would transfer her to her bassinet without any problem), and, um...I didn’t move her back to her room. Yeah, um...I didn’t even move her to the bassinet. I snuggled with her until 8 this morning. (Bad, Mama!)
Jane has always slept well. Even in the early days when it went against every natural instinct of mine to wake a sleeping baby to eat. (Would you want someone to wake you in the middle of the night to ask if you cared for a snack?) But, I did just that (it took a month rather than 2 weeks for Jane to get back to her birthweight) because my pediatrician told me to.
I tell ya, though. Had I let her, she’d have slept halfway through the Today show. I know that because one night I forgot to reset my “maternal” clock and slept through the night myself...and my girl just sawed her own logs right along with me.
Now, I am reading more. And listening to more moms. WHOA. The topic of sleeping can sure drum up some controversy! Every mom tells me to do it her way (and usually when that happens, I take Krissy’s advice: Smile. Say “Thank you.” Do what I want). Ay, but here’s the rub: When it comes to sleep training, I don’t know what I want!
First of all, I KNOW I am already doing something wrong, letting her stay up late with us. I finally understand (or at least, I think I do) that when she’s fussy at around 9 or 10, it’s not gas (like we always have suspected), it’s that she’s overtired and begging for sleep. BAD, MAMA [Take 2]!!!
So, not only is she sleeping in her crib again tonight...I started to put her down at 6pm.
She cried for 3 minutes.
I went and rubbed her head (a standby for our family, it seems. I STILL ask my husband to “play with my hair” and I fall right asleep), and “shhh shhh shhhed.” She calmed down. I left.
10 minutes later, she started wailing. Sticking to my guns, I let her cry 5 minutes this time, went in and soothed her the same way, she quieted, and I left.
5 minutes after that, and she started screaming. The difference was, in those previous 5 minutes, I had read some opinions on the internet and had convinced myself that I was “the worst kind of parent.”
I caved. I ran in and got her and started apologizing. NOT because I was trying to “sleep train,” but because I had tried a month too soon, according to most pro-sleep training sites I had read.
I kissed her a frillion times, changed her diaper, and rocked her for all of a minute and a half before she had fallen to sleep in my arms, and I just transferred her to her crib before running here to ask you, dear readers, what to do.
She’s stirred a few times, but now has been quiet for 15 minutes...
Damn. I should have poured myself a glass of wine before writing this.
(See? I can’t even leave it at ONE heated topic? I have to add a boozy breastfeeding mom into the mix. EN GARDE, internet!)
What did you do with your kiddos? What do you think you would have done differently,? And for the love of all that is holy, am I doing anything right?
*Lest you break out the tar and feathers - The baby pictured was napping on an adult’s chest, not on her tummy at night.

NEW YEAR. NEW ROLE.

Wed, 20 Jan 2010 18:52:26 -0600

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

One of my resolutions was to post more regularly on this site...so, how’m I doin’, internet?
Yeesh.
Obligatory New Year post? Meh. You know, I always have resolutions – my birthdays, primarily, are when I set specific goals for the year. But every December 31st I think, “Be a better wife, daughter, sister, and friend. Do more for your clients, do more for others, say ‘thank you’ constantly for all your blessings, and spiff your spiritual self up a little.”
What I am struck by, however, is not what resolutions people made, but rather how soooooo many people talked about how glad they were to see 2009 end. Ok, I get it. Sure. The economy is in the pooper and the job market sucks. The world, overall, is fraught with war and corruption, and the slanted media is [groan] sensationalizing everything they can to scare the bajeezus out of everyone. Trust me. I understand. Last year, both my hubs and I took jobs we were exponentially overqualified for in order to achieve some of our goals after moving our lives across the country, and for all intents and purposes, started from scratch. Wanna’ talk scary?
Personally, though – this was a banner year for our household. My husband did extraordinarily well in his classes while maintaining a full time job and continues to grow into a better man than I think, even he previously knew he could be. I managed to set up a little cottage industry consultancy, and am really proud of the results I helped to get for my clients. I am also getting referrals now, which feels...wow. I can’t really describe it. I liken it to that scene in Jerry Maguire after Cuba Gooding Jr.’s character does something fantabulous and everyone starts calling Jerry to be their agent. It shor’ do feel good.
And, we became homeowners. For those of you who are familiar with being a Manhattanite (and know how renting is the norm and space is a luxury) you can really sink your teeth into just how big of a step that was for us. I catch myself waltzing around the house and revel in the sheer openness of it. And it’s 2000 sq. feet. Small by most homeowners’ standards. HUUUUUUUUUUUMONGOUS to me. Finding a perfect table lamp and organizing closets have, honest to God, gotten me more excited than the Spring Clearance sale in the Saks shoe department used to.
Most exceptionally, was the arrival of our sweet little girl, Jane Scarlett. My pregnancy and her birth were really enjoyable, for the most part, and in retrospect, both events coincided with some of the more stressful times in our life together, so far.
Go figure.
Thing is – my husband and I waited a relatively long time for each other. Neither one of us settled for the first (second, third...you get the idea) loves in our lives, and so we were pretty set in our individual ways when we met and when we married. That’s why it’s even more impressive (to me) when I realized how we both struggled to reinvent ourselves in 2009. That can be hard to do while still continuing to build a partnership. To encourage your spouse at the same time you are starving for support, yourself. But we did it. And I am more in love with (in awe of/proud of/intrigued by) him now than I ever thought I could be.
So, yeah. This year was one of the most transformative ever for our little 2 (make that 3! THREEEEEEE!!!!) person sphere, and so...no. I wasn’t longing to see it end. But, man oh man...I am so eager for everything this year has to offer, and I am ready to be better.
And this time, I get to add, “Be a good mama” to the list.

HAVE BABY, LIFE, JOB...HAVE IT ALL. JUST NOT ALL AT ONCE.

Fri, 4 Dec 2009 16:56:18 -0600

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

Oh, internet. I have so many wonderful things to share with you. I had a baby! The sweetest, cutest little bundle of adorable you ever did see. And I want to tell you all about it. About the delivery (well, not ALL about the actual delivery), but the highlights, for sure. And I have to tell you about the incredible outpouring of generosity from friends and family.

And we moved! Into a HOUSE! US! Can you even? Manhattan apartment dwellers move to Austin and get their own little slice of American dream pie. How very Green Acres of us. Except instead of a pig, we have a baby. We win.

I want to tell you about all of that. But I am just trying to find time to breathe right now. Because I also work. I mean, yes, mothering of the stay-at-home variety is work, (Hoo, boy! Is it ever.) but I was referring to the raddest bunch of clients in whose favor I would like to stay. And yes...like every woman ever in the history of the universe (well, at least the ones who tell the truth) I am trying to find the point of divine equilibrium.

Right now, I am typing with one hand. (Hence the typos.) After I fed the baby...again...which really, seems like all I do, I tried to get her down so I could work on a campaign and do some copy-writing. But then my husband called to tell me that our bed was being delivered, and the guys were just around the corner. So, I go strip the loaner bed and answer the door to let the guys in. Baby cries. I go tend to baby. Husband calls. “All ok?” Assure him. Tell the guys what to do. Calm baby. Let the guys out. Get forgotten clothes in washer into dryer before they mildew. put baby in swing. Text husband to pick up sheets for new bed that HELLO, haven’t even gotten correctly sized sheets for yet. Grab computer. Get 3 sentences written for client. Baby cries and won’t stop after short “wait and see if she settles back into a nap” period. Soothe baby. Figure out way to hold baby and type with one hand. Deduct a frillion hours off invoice b/c I would rather way underestimate the time they owe me for since I can’t scrounge up a solid 2 hours anywhere and have resorted to writing times like I am punching in and out of the brewery a la Laverne & Shirley. Type 2 more sentences. Husband calls. “Sheets on sale but the wrong color ok?” Sigh. Give him complete sheet-buying authority. Baby really fussing now and starting to suck on hand. Arrange pillow mound to support baby and computer on the couch, Feel pity for starving child who is forced to eat off own appendage. Begin to nurse her. Start typing like Frankenstein speaks. Stop correcting typos and tell self that taking time for corrections loses and ignoring stupid Virgo-type neuroses wins. Husband calls. Asks “Why are you acting so dejected?” Roll eyes and say whatever will get me off the phone the fastest: “No reason. All’s well.” Baby still acting hungry. Nurse again. Laugh out loud at the resonating flatulence emanating from oblivious child. Stop and stare at beautiful blue eyes staring up at me and decide that her gaze is too captivating to ignore. Shut computer and squeeze her a little closer.

THE PROOF IS IN THE PLANNING

Thu, 15 Oct 2009 18:57:01 -0500

By Krissy Bertrand

I LOVE to cook! I love the challenge of trying new recipes and ingredients.
BUT
I HATE asking "what's for dinner" - the question that plagues most households, especially now that our family contains a toddler who could give a flying fig about the new artisan cheeses at HEB.

So, together with a friend, I created a monthly menu plan. I planned a meal and side every day for four weeks. Like most of you, I don't cook every night so my planned week gets me through a week and a half to two weeks. My month plan ends up lasting close to two months which saves me tons of time AND more importantly, money!!

The first time I did this, it took me a while because I created a spreadsheet for the menu so that I could see a month at a glance. Then, I had to pick the recipes to fill the menu. Finally, I created another spreadsheet (within the same workbook in Excel) for the shopping lists for each week. The planning, now that everything is set up, is much faster. I can get it done in less than two hours. That might sound like a lot to some of you, but remember this is for almost two months of meals!

Let me go into a bit more detail on the recipe selection. As I mentioned above, I enjoy trying out new recipes and have subscriptions to a couple of cooking magazines. I also watch Food Network a little more than I probably should (staying at home has its occasional privileges). Anytime a recipe catches my eye, I try to mark it in the magazine or bookmark it on my computer. Then, I scatter these throughout my month - typically three a week. I also put in a no-brainer for each week (think spaghetti, chicken and rice, steaks, meatloaf...) where I typically don't need a recipe. I also try to include one fish meal a week and the rest I balance between poultry, pork, red meat, and vegetarian.

Once I've gotten all my recipes compiled and chosen for particular days, I scan them all in and keep them saved in a folder (I'm on month three of doing this, so my most recent plan is titled plan three - creative, I know). I also print the recipes out and they are hole punched and put into a binder.

Finally, I create my shopping lists for each week. Each list is divided into categories like produce, dairy, meat... for quick shopping (remember that toddler). I print out each week's list and it goes in the binder along with the menu for the month.

The beauty of this plan is its flexibility. I rarely go in order that I've planned the meals for any given week, but rather pick what sounds good for that night (out of my seven choices). At the grocery store a few days ago, I purchased all of my shopping list items for week two. I spent $122 and that included wild salmon, specialty spices ($10), and a few other items not on the list. I feel pretty good that this will cover our dinners for around the next week and a half. If I'm cautious, I can easily spend $300 or less on our groceries for the month and know that those meals are balanced and nutritious.

The other great perk about having a monthly plan with shopping lists already created is that you can buy all the non perishable items and meat that can be frozen for the whole month in just one shopping trip! This is such a great time saver! Even though you still have to get fruits, vegetables, and perishables on a weekly basis, those trips take less time.

I love doing this because I NEVER ask "what's for dinner?" anymore! I feel more relaxed about meal times and have found that in a free minute I can chop some vegetables that I need for dinner in the next few nights or just prep a recipe (measuring out ingredients or just gathering what I'll need on the counter). Then, at 5:30 everything falls into place and I can pretend that I'm just that good!

YOUR DAILY PRETZEL, HEAVY ON THE SALT

Mon, 14 Sep 2009 14:41:05 -0500

By Sarah Wells Kohl

Yogi, Yogini, Yoga Teacher, Yoga Instructor, Mat Whore - whatever you wanna call it, that's me. I've been doing yoga for 15 years through thick, thin, and all things in between. Hell, I even rocked a pretty amazing Eka Pada Rajakapotasana when I was 9 months pregnant. I love everything about it. It's a part of me, this yoga. It's who I am. I twist and bend and breathe and move and meditate and stretch and search my soul every day. Patanjali and his Sutras are my constant companions. I believe in the Yamas and Niyamas, the 8 limbs of Ashtanga, the Buddhist 8 fold path. I practice, I teach, I live my yoga. But I also live in the real world.

And the real world can be a total bitch.

I often feel as though I am expected to be this vision of euphoria, this Zen sage of peace, the ultimate living breathing definition of serenity. The the truth of the matter is that yes, I do have moments of that, but I just as often have moments of thinking, "OM, Motherfucker, I said OM!"

It's yoga, people, not a tab of ecstasy.

While it's true that yoga has healed long festering emotional wounds and it has slowed my roll more than a little bit, I'm still human under these roll-top pants and racerback tanks. I get upset, I get angry, I get frustrated, and I get downright snarky from time to time. I don't always use common sense, I don't always count to ten, and I don't always see the beauty in the Universe trying to teach me tolerance by sticking me behind someone driving 45 mph on the FREAKING INTERSTATE, thankyouverymuch. I digress...

The good news is that those moments of unbalance *cough*have I entered the asshat dimension?*cough*, yes, unbalance are brief now and I don't make an asana out of myself as often as I once did. I am much more centered, I do feel alive and aware. I do feel connected to all the energy that has come before me and feel certain that my energy will be felt years after I have left this body. I am certain that I am still married and still maintain custody of my children and haven't landed in jail for some inane thing because of my mat. I work my shit out there. Actually, it's more like I work my body and my mind works out my shit while I try not to fall. Life on and off the mat ... it's all about the balance.

So while I may not leave lotus petals in my footsteps, I'm also not leaving landmines, either.

And that is some tasty yoga.

SWEET DREAMS ARE MADE OF THIS

Thu, 20 Aug 2009 18:09:19 -0500

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

I have been having cuh-razy dreams. (Crazy good, people. If you know what I mean. Wink. Nudge. And P.S. Dad, stop reading.) Some people tell me it’s the “pregnancy hormones,” and if that’s the case, then it’s about damn time those things did something I LIKE for once (other than, of course, providing me with you, Baby).
My husband is almost always in them, many times as the one and only leading man, so let’s not book time on the old therapist’s couch just yet. But, quite often, one or all of my ex-boyfriends are involved as well. And by “boyfriends” I may mean anyone who I had multiple-year relationships with or (Earmuffs, Baby) “that guy I made out with at that bar that one time.”
Who knew that all those those very-limited-in-number guys would get along so well together? One even high-fived my husband in an episode like, “Hey. Well done on scoring that slice of perfection/the one I let get away.” (Yes, I call them episodes. Like I have my own “Julie-centric” show. With a following! Let’s hurry up and go to sleep to see what scandalous situation she gets herself into this time!) Point is. They all come to the party. Guest of honor? Me!
It’s pretty rad for the ol’ ego. Even when that dud of a guy I was fool enough to date for over a year (Two? Honestly, I can’t remember. Telling, huh?) shows up. Eh, he just stands around without any dialogue or participation anyway. Kind of what it was like in real life. The year (or two?) of yawns. But, I digress. For the most part, it’s still a show I want to watch.
Sometimes an ex just makes a cameo appearance. Like when I am traveling around in my house-plane (like a houseboat, but flying the friendly skies) and talking to my husband in Mandarin (because, duh – what language do you NOT know fluently at all that you speak in your dreams?) and all of a sudden an old boyfriend (or a future ex-boyfriend like Daniel Craig) walks through the aisle dressed in a steward’s uniform and asks me if I’d care for a beverage.
“Oh, a beverage?” I think as I cock my eyebrow. “So that’s what the kids are calling it these days.”
Then, maybe we’ll land and Hugh Jackman will meet the plane. “Care for a swim?” He’ll ask. “Oh, a swim?” I reply. “So that’s what the kids are calling it these days?” (Note to self: Work on your sexy comebacks. They’re a whole brand of “movies from the 40s” kind of lame.) Anyway, we saunter over to the pool that’s right there on the tarmac and jump in…you know…like you do.
Anyway, there are those dreams – the ones that, for a moment, kind of tiptoe around the raging hormones…they’re like the earlier HBO or Showtime series which I have dubbed “good-girl porn.” And then…well, then there are those that don’t tiptoe at all. They couldn’t care less about tip-toeing. Tip-toeing to them would be like Mary-Kate or Ashley (whichever the fat one is) winning an Academy Award. Not going to happen. No. Instead, they do a pretty good 37 person, chain of interlocking arms, Michael Flatley, Lord of the Dance, brick-heeled jig right on top of the hormones, and I wake up chewing on my pillow.
But, in all fairness, I think that’s what causes the “glow” that everyone says pregnant women radiate. It’s waking up after some quality R.E.M. and the blush you get while smirking to yourself about the pseudo trysts that occurred the night before.
So when you think about it, what a bitch naughty little prankster Mother Nature is…getting us all hot and bothered whilst making us look (or feel like we look) like Shamu’s older “not cute enough to be in the show” sister. But our skin looks like J-Lo’s on Oscar night. So there’s that. Uh huh. Awesome.

LOSING THE EXPAT CUPCAKE

Wed, 12 Aug 2009 11:46:58 -0500

By Krissy Bertrand

Now that we’ve moved back to the states, our budget lost quite a bit of her expat cupcake (picture a muffin top, but worse). But, I’d like to see Ms. Budget drop a few more pounds so that she can wear her skinny jeans and still feel good about herself! I’ve come up with a few money saving tips that I think will help us get rid of that last bit of excess waist (I mean it just like I typed it you grammar monkeys).

1. One of the biggest savers is creating a monthly or weekly menu plan. Mine is on a spreadsheet with a main dish and side listed for every day. Obviously, I don’t cook every day, so the monthly planner gives me about a month and a half of meals. I try to schedule a beef, poultry, vegetarian, and seafood meal for each week. I create grocery lists for each week and buy the pantry/non – perishable items whenever they go on sale because I know they will be used. I also try to stay flexible. For example, if pork tenderloin is on sale and cheaper than the chicken I had planned to cook, I will use the pork instead.

I’ve found that this helps me adhere to my shopping list and avoid extras. We also are eating healthier because everything is planned in advance and I’m not saying “what’s for dinner?”

The plan will take a bit of time to create, but you’ll save money and time in the long run. You won’t be running to the store for 2-3 items, you won’t have to buy items full price because you know what your plan is for the month, and you won’t be throwing away unused or expired food.

To save time at the store, I organize the grocery list into sections (produce, dairy, canned, meat…) and put the sections in the order that I walk through them at the store. I can easily see if I’ve missed produce before I leave the produce section.

2. Instead of buying microwave popcorn, I buy popcorn kernels and pop them in a pan with some ghee. Just make sure you cover the pan! The popcorn flavor is then entirely up to you! Saves at least a couple of dollars. Also, you determine the portion, not Pop Secret. I’ve made homemade caramel before to put on top of the popcorn. To…die…for!

3. I rarely buy prepared salad dressings anymore. I make my own with oil, vinegar, and herbs and it tastes much better. All you need is a whisk.

4. I try out non brand items that I purchase consistently and compare the taste to the brand version. My son doesn’t care if he’s eating Honey –Os or Cheerios. So far, Ro-Tel has been one of the items that clearly tastes better than it’s no name counterpart.

As our waist/waist diminishes, I’ll keep you posted on the budget diet tricks that worked for us! Please share any tips that you use!

WOULD YOU LIKE SOME HIPS WITH THAT?

Wed, 29 Jul 2009 12:49:53 -0500

By Andrea J. Shipman

I have work. Piles of it really and yet I can’t get one thing out of my mind.
Crunchy.
Salty.
Deliciousness.
CHIPS.
And salsa – oooh spicy salsa.

Even though my jeans are tight today.

Sure, I can blame it on the dryer and how I didn’t hang them to dry. But let’s be honest – I’ve been trying to “stretch” these jeans out since yesterday. Point in fact, I DIDN’T wear them yesterday b/c even after 10 minutes in them I decided that my semi-shaved legs could make it one more day in shorts.

This morning I deluded myself into thinking the “stretching” I did yesterday would be sufficient. Of course I would be fine later on in the day – they will totally fit by then.

Or… not.

Every time I get up they are tight on my thighs and on my soon-to-be-never-seen-again waist. Yeah – whole lot of stretchin’ going on today.

I shuffle back and forth in weight. Never really enough to alarmingly tip the scales (which I never step on) just enough to start me in the downswing of self-hatred. Yes, I am fully aware that I should love myself, love my body for all its foibles and lumps, adore my huge ass that never fits into pants…blah, blah, blah. Oh I’m sorry. I grew up with a grandfather who would comment, “Andrea – tienes caderas bien grandes.”

Translation: “Andrea, you have very large thighs/hips.”

After snorting back a giggle, my mother assured me this was indeed a compliment.
I make sure to return the compliment to my mother as often as possible. They were a gift from her gene pool after all. She may as well bask in the glory of the WORLD’S LARGEST THIGHS now with BONUS HIPS.

How could I tell her that the much lauded Sweet Valley High twins did NOT have “caderas bien grandes”? You know who else lacked the overly-complimented caderas bien grandes? Winnie Cooper that’s who. Neither Winnie Cooper, nor Blossom, not even Kimmie or DJ. And never ever did you hear – “You know what that Jessie Spano needs? A nice honking set of thighs with an extra-serving of hips.” PS – the next time someone calls Giselle curvy I will have their head on a pike outside my home to make an example of them.

Let me step back here to a few months ago. When I was also unhappy about my weight, the sudden pile on of poundage on my once flat stomach created a nauseating roll of smushed fat over my jeans. Cruising towards 30ish and painfully aware of the inevitable slowing of my metabolism, I was trying to eat well, go to the gym often and avoid looking at my naked form in the mirror at all costs. One night my husband (who thinks I am gorgeous then, now and every single premenstrual moment in-between) grabbed said roll of flopping fat hanging over my jeans in a playful making-out moment. Mortified, I shrank away from him as much as possible. I actually tried to hike my pants up OVER the fat – as if it would magically disappear beneath a denim overlay.

“Babe – don’t pull your jeans over your stomach!”

“I’m not,” I lied red-faced and feeling like an orca.

“Honey, why don’t you just join Weight Watchers? Wouldn’t it make you feel better?” He’s still holding on to the abhorrent fat now, his hands like huge pinchers.

The mood in the room raised an eyebrow at him and wheezed out it last lingering breath.

I got up and huffed my now gargantuan-self up the stairs to get ready for bed, hurt and very embarrassed.

Fast-forward a couple months when my best friend visited 27lbs lighter and my husband gushed over how great she looked. And she did. Teeny-tiny. Then we went shopping. I browsed and rejected to the tune of… “I think I am in between a 2 and a 4. I mean sometimes I can be a 2 but it really depends on the store.” I imagined a pair of my HUGE size tens jumping up and eating her whole or making her into a belt. But mostly, I considered killing her and dumping her on the side of a deserted NC highway. Oh shut it. You’ve been there.

And before you all get haughty, let me say that I am very happy for her. VERY. In the few months since I have seen her she’s completely quit smoking and taken up early morning running. Also, her arms no longer look like pixie sticks. What? Too much?

Women do this to themselves constantly. We compare, we pick apart, we judge and then we eat [insert food that substitutes for your feelings here]. And then the cycle starts all over again – compare, put down, eat feelings.

Julie just asked me: Well how did you resolve it? All this BS and now what? Sigh. I have tried to start walking earlier in the day with my husband with decent results. I have tried to acknowledge stress/PMS before diving head first into that bowl of chips with err, negligible results.

But do we ever resolve the BS yammering in our heads?
Do we ever watch the Victoria’s Secret Runway show and not cringe just a little inside when Heidi (constantly-pregnant-yet-always-lingerie-worthy) Klum struts her stuff on that runway?

I’m going with no. But feel free to correct me in the comments. And then I will judge you.
Sigh. See?

F...IS FOR FIRST DATE

Tue, 28 Jul 2009 16:36:06 -0500

By Allison Carlsen

I should be doing work. I should be writing for school. I should be learning new music. I should be doing many many other things right now, but I needed to write this down. While it's still fresh in my mind. Cuz I don't know what it leads to or if it will just be one of those awesome snapshots in time that I can think back upon and smile, but it deserves to be written down.

I feel kinda' bad now because I made it into quite a big deal and made the poor guy completely nervous. We eased into our first date by making plans for us all to go the movies. I am not sure really how loudly we actually made that announcement, because in the end it was just me and him. Which is exactly how we wanted it anyway. And then we decided on a night. Tuesday. It was the one night of the week that I knew I was free. I wouldn't find out until later that he actually had plans that night that he blew off to be with me instead. You may already be able to see where this is going and therefore why I think it's so important to get these thoughts down on something concrete. Because I'm not. On concrete. Not really, anyway, I'm kind of floating above it...looking up at the sunshine and smiling. *spoiler alert* What do you mean, too late? Shut up and listen...this is a good story.

Later, after we'd taken it upon ourselves to decide that no one else would be joining us and which night to go, he turns to me and says "we should go to dinner before." Yes! We should! So, dinner and a movie. This sounds like a date.

We'd known each other for a few months and over the course had become friends. We chatted and flirted until one evening all the walls came tumbling down and we...sort of...found each other. And so we went on a date. A first date. And it goes a little something like this...

We met in Bryant Park. He was waiting for me, looking down at his phone, looking very dapper in his mint green shirt and non-prescription sunglasses. There were a few tentative moments before he confidently swept my hand into his, and we settled in for a stroll through Bryant Park. I was suddenly the goofy ingenue in a Nora Ephron movie. I decided to play my part to the hilt (all the while mocking myself ever so coolly because helloooo) and waved to the Empire State Building winking down at us. We wound our way through the people and the traffic to Times Square, crossing right through the middle of where we New Yorkers normally dread to go and usually avoid like a plague. We walked up Broadway while talking about Broadway (I just puked a little tiny bit. I know...you did, too) to Columbus Circle, past the fountains and the horse-drawn carriages to (get 'em ready, folks, seat pocket in front of you. There you go) Central Park. We strolled and talked and walked and held hands and laughed and joked. It was a cool, beautiful evening, too. Go ahead, take a knee...I'll wait.

We exit the park at Tavern on the Green - I'd be willing to bet we were both silently wondering if we'd ever have occasion to dine there together - and through the Brownstone lined streets of the Upper West Side we walk. Plenty of time to kill before the movie, but not enough time for a meal, so we go to one of my favorite places for a drink. And wouldn't you know it, karma ladybugs had just made available a table for two right next to the window. I swear to god, I am not making any of this up. This really happened. *floating*

The thing with the guy is? Conversation never stops. Ever. And it's always smart...and almost always funny. (Give me some credit people. I really do try, and I really like this guy, and he might actually read this, so could you please help me out a little here? Thank you.) So, BECAUSE we're both so funny (*crickets* thank you) we're usually laughing all the time. And kissing. Where we lack in absolutely anything else - Japanese, swordfighting, humor- we MORE than make up for in kissing. Oh. my. god. Chills. Chills, people. So yeah, there's talking and laughing and drinking and kissing and then it's time to go to the movies.

We saw Star Trek in IMAX.

(Stop! Where are you all going? No...wait! I am telling the truth! Don't be like that. You guys stuck with me through the Mexico trip and the Italy thing. Don't give up on me now. I KNOW my life is ridiculously, ethereally fantastic...I fully admit that. But you can't blame me for it. Okay? Okay. Thank you. Better now? You gonna' sit down and let me finish my story? Thank you. Now, where were we...)

Yes, Star Trek in IMAX...(*crickets* cool). In a completely packed theatre, we found a seat at the end of the row - but not like all the way against the wall - and with a handrail in front of us that we used as a footrest to tangled our legs up in. And there was no one on either side of us. Thank yooou, ladybugs. We curled up against each other for the whole movie, he rubbed my arms to keep them warm. Movie great. IMAX fun. So far, we're like 10 for 10.

And now we're hungry, so he gives me his coat (yes yes yes...yes, seriously) and we head the rest of the way uptown to my neighborhood and stop at my favorite pizza place which is yay! still open. Grab some slices, head home. We not watched tv on the couch and ate our pizza and talked and laughed and laughed and kissed and laughed and talked and...

I am not going to go any further because you guys are nosy and tried to leave earlier, so I am cutting you off there. I would just like to say that it was. the. perfect. first. date. Like, ever.

Meg Ryan, eat your heart out.

BIGGER

Mon, 27 Jul 2009 17:16:38 -0500

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

When I was a Junior in high school, I played a role in a production that required me to stretch my physically comedic muscle by wearing that pregnancy prosthetic that maternity clothing stores keep in their dressing rooms. I remember getting into costume, looking at the reflection of my 17 year-old self, seemingly knocked up...and was horrified.

My boyfriend at the time responded in a way that left me flabbergasted.
“Awww. You look cute.”

( I know. Sweet, right?) But, um...yeah. I didn’t feel cute. I didn’t feel more feminine. I felt...panic-stricken, and not because I feared a birth control malfunction, but rather because I didn’t want to see myself...bigger.

I mean, it was just that little belly. My face wasn’t bloated. Every other part of my body still looked like it belonged on the healthy teenager I was, and I knew that a relatively flat stomach hid underneath the faux belly bump, but still...I remember how strongly I felt a rush of dramatic discomfort.

This last February, when I found out that I was (forreal, in the flesh, IT’S-ACTUALLY-GOING-TO-HAPPEN) pregnant, I can’t tell you that I was all that jazzed about the prospect of getting...well...fat. My body has always been a source of emotion for me. While I have mostly felt confident in my curves, and actually perhaps borderline arrogant where a couple are concerned (My 31 year-old rack still sometimes gets accused of being bought rather than genetically bestowed, thankyouverymuch), like most women, I usually thought that if I could juuuuuust lose 10 pounds, or if only my thighs were a little more toned, if I could just get my [fill in body part] to respond to the hours I spent in the gym, that I would be somehow...better.

So, it was genuine guilt I felt when I admitted strong anxiety about my body changing so drastically, especially since this was something I had virtually no control over. I was so lucky to be healthy! That my body was doing what it was built (Honey, if you saw these hips, you’d know they were never just made to do the hula) to do! That I never had to struggle with infertility issues! And that this body of mine has actually carried me through some pretty serious accidents and illnesses with barely a scratch!

And then, it started happening. My shape began to transform.

I sooooo wish I could tell you that I didn’t maniacally jump on the scale every other morning. I wish I could tell you that for the first few months, when I was hurling my guts out, that I didn’t think more than once “well, at least my weight is staying lower for now.” I wish I could tell you I didn’t eat up the “You’re HOW many months? You’re not even showing!” comments.

But, then it happened. One night, while in bed, I felt the flutter. I placed my hand on my slightly rounded belly, caressing its curve, and after a few minutes, noticed the movement again. And I started crying. Why had I been so concerned about myself when this incredible little being was just doing the best it could to grow the way it was supposed to? Something clicked. I had to enjoy this. I should enjoy this. I WOULD enjoy this. Every pound I naturally gained meant that our baby was that much healthier, that much closer to its arrival.

After my shower the next morning, while my husband and I were getting ready, I walked around my apartment naked, just like I used to do, without even thinking. I stared at myself a long time in the mirror and...smiled. My husband told me (like he has almost every day since I met him) how beautiful he thinks I am.

I not only believed him...I agreed with him.

Admittedly, I know I am just vain enough to try really hard, after I deliver, to get “back into shape,” but whatever that shape is, I am going to be joyful about it. (Come on, look at the trade!) And until then, I have to say, I am enjoying the almost daily physical changes I am going through. I love feeling our little Miss practicing her breakdancing moves, and I close my eyes and envision that the rounder I get, the more she is developing into the perfect little creature she is...and will be.

So this weekend, as I flaunt what I got at my baby shower, while surrounded by many of the amazing women who I am so incredibly lucky to have in my life...the women, many of whom share in this specific kind of sisterhood...I am going to celebrate the most spectacular one of all; the one I have yet to meet, but feel every day. The one who has made me more beautiful than I have ever been...and bigger than I have ever been...in the most important sense of the word.

*Please know that I am pulling my dress taut in this pic - Even though I dig my prego shape, I don't want you to think I walk around in dresses so tight you can see my cami grasping for dear life around my mid-section. Or hell, think what you want...as long as you know I am wearing the most kick-ass shoes to compliment the outfit. Please. I’m still moi.

IT’S A WORLD OF PURE IMAGINATION

Tue, 7 Jul 2009 17:08:30 -0500

By Heather Feeler

I've always had an active imagination. Lately, however, it's turning out to be more of a problem than a fun, creative personality trait. Ever since my body started falling apart at the age of 30, my mind has been in overdrive.

A pain on the lower left side. Ovarian cyst. Three sneezes in a row. Swine flu. Dizziness right before a meal. Diabetes. Ugly mole on by butt. Skin cancer.

It would be comical, except it's absolutely true. I've started obsessing over minor aches and pains. It has to be something bigger, something worse. Instead of having a doctor confirm that I'm fine physically (a tad crazy mentally, of course), I starting researching all these symptoms online. I just Google it, forgoing any official medical site. You can imagine what pops up. You got it......I am one sick puppy!

I wish I had never read the article that said after the age of 28, your body and health start to decline. Before I had time to shut the magazine, I was older. I'm older just writing this and, honestly, it pains me. I'm young, but already fearful of growing older with all the ailments that come with it. I'm afraid of being sick. I'm afraid of pain. I'm afraid I might die young, or old, or without my consent. I'm afraid of the not knowing all there is to know.

I am absolutely frozen surrounded by all this fear. I'm stuck. Sadly, I know I'm not the only one.

How do we stop measuring our life by the number of years and start counting the worthwhile moments? When do we realize that a great tragedy (a chronic illness, divorce, loss of a loved one) can turn into a triumph when we come out stronger, more aware of the world? How do we turn off the screeching voice of worry?

If you find the answers, could you drop me a quick line? You're the best.

SPIRIT CLUB

Mon, 29 Jun 2009 11:52:25 -0500

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

My father once told me that at one point during my adolescence, he was worried I would decide to become a nun.

I’ll go ahead and pause for a second to let those of you who know me laugh about that. Yeah ok, that’s enough.

Actually, I was rather “into” my religion at the time. While my mother had always provided a home full of magic and love, we definitely went more than a few rounds with insanity. Divorced parents who may not have known the best way to deal with their anger and hurt. An unstable step-father. You know...the kind of disfunction that most families have.

It was especially during that time that I found a huge comfort in going to church...well, since my mother had converted to Catholicism when I was 5, we went to Mass. Anyway. Kids like boundaries and routine, and feel safe within structure, so I am sure that weekly dose did a lot to calm what seemed chaotic at home. I found joy in the music, loving to harmonize while singing the hymns, and because one of my talents has always been to remember dialogue, I relished silently reciting the “script” in my head while the priest performed the service.

We usually went to Central Dairy afterwards to enjoy some full-fat ice cream, so it is a safe bet those visits literally and figuratively “put the cherry on top.”

But, it didn’t stay that way.

As I grew older and discovered the hypocrisies that emerge within every religion, the fundamentalists in every sect whose actions contradict the exact message of their faith, the idea that men wrote all of these mythologies to teach us social mores and that didn’t mean that my version of God handed them the pen...well, I just decided to be the best person I could, and my time in a traditional Cathedral just sort of...waned. I took some Theology classes and really enjoyed them. I read about other religions and pelted my friends of other faiths with questions about their traditions. I considered the discovery of every similarity that shows up in organized religions a victory. We are all more alike that we are different.

And since then, I have grown more connected, more loved, more loving, and more aware of my spirituality...more conscious of doing what I can to uncover my divinity and the divinity of others. Call it whatever you want, but I just mean that everyone has something beautiful and special in them, and I think we are our best selves when we recognize those qualities in each other.

I completely respect people of faith who go to church/temple/services...when they seek their truth, and do their best to live in a way that is tolerant, forgiving, non-judgmental, and loving (because that is what I think the central themes are in every religion). And, I don’t get people who aren’t religious and mock people’s beliefs just because they think they know better.

I don’t think any of us know better, really.

I have been thinking about spirituality a lot lately because several of my friends are facing challenges in the midst of this recession, and just cannot see the lessons they could be learning right now. That only from adversity do we grow as people. That every challenge is a blessing that will hopefully make us more compassionate beings. And while sometimes I submit to my more human nature and become afraid or stressed...truly...truly I know...though my divine self...I will always be ok. I will always be provided for. That I have everything I need, and that I am so lucky to have the wherewithal and abilities to always be blessed with happiness and abundance.

I hope that for you today.

I wish you bluebirds in the spring
To give your heart a song to sing
And then a kiss, but more than this
I wish you love.

And in July a lemonade
To cool you in some leafy glade
I wish you health
But more than wealth
I wish you love.

I wish you shelter from the storm
A cozy fire to keep you warm
But most of all
when shadows fall
I wish you love.

ULTIMISH PROGRESS

Thu, 21 May 2009 00:00:00 -0500

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

So, I really didn’t see much difference until earlier this week...
I can’t decide if I look pregnant or if it just seems like I need to lay off the french fries.

Here I am at 8.5 weeks. Geez, Jules. Clean the mirror much? Here’s a fun, and yet slightly geeky trick: Squint your eyes a little and it looks like I am doing some sort of sorcery. Also, I am barefoot, unintentionally fulfilling the hick stereotype, but hey, isn’t that skirt (Anthropologie, circa 2007) cute?

Here I am at 10 - almost 11 weeks. Look, I should get some credit for this picture for the mere fact that I stopped throwing up long enough to put on something other than just panties and a tank top. You’re welcome. Note to self: Nix the cargo pants that makes it look as though your ass stops a mere 2 inches above the back of your knees.

Finally seems real. 16.5 weeks. But, sweet baby jesus in a manger...I SWEAR I Windexed that mirror not 2 days prior! This was before I attempted some yoga, hence the Texas tee shirt/cropped pant ensemble, and although not the best photo of the bunch, I had to include it because if you look really closely, you can see my kitty, Gracie peeking out from under the bed to observe the not-so-great-with-the-self-portrait skills.

More to come, ego permitting.

GETTIN' MY GREEN ON

Thu, 30 Apr 2009 16:11:41 -0500

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

On two separate occasions this week, I have had dreams about this. (In case you don’t want to click the link, I’ll just tell you. There is a mass of plastic garbage the size of TEXAS floating in the Pacific Ocean that sometimes runs 90 ft. deep...and there is a mass like this in every ocean.)
I saw it on Oprah, (FINE. I admit I watch Oprah. Do I think she’s preachy? Yes. Do I still watch her? Yup. Do I sometimes roll my eyes and say, “Oh shut up already, Oprah?” Sure do. But, there you go. I’m not made of steel.) and ever since then, I am so conscious of how much trash we...how much I...generate.
Have I seen things like this before? News reports about the environment and the landfills and the never ending flood of garbage? Yes. I don’t know why this affected me so much this time, but I’m glad it did.
My older sister, Jill and I were talking the other night about Mad Men, one of our shared not-so-guilty pleasures, and she had just watched the episode when Don Draper gets a new Cadillac. Don and Betty take the kids to picnic, and when they were getting ready to leave, Betty just shakes out the blanket, letting all the trash just fly away. Jill watched that and thought exactly what I did when I saw it: Whoa. What? No wonder we’re in the mess we’re in. Our parents’ generation littered like crazy!
But what will our kids think about our habits when they inherit this ungodly mess from US?
You know, I’m really not trying to be soap-boxy, or even “hey, look at me, trying to save the world over here” martyr-like, because I am certainly not even close to being off the grid, but I have made **little changes. I try to follow my friend, Erin’s example. If I go to Starbucks or any other fine purveyor of caffeine (thanks, Allison), I bring my own cup. (Can you IMAGINE the difference if we all just did that? How much less garbage there would be?)
We’ve had several days here in Austin where the thermometer has risen over 85, sometimes even 90, and we have touched our thermostat maybe 4 times since we moved here in December (for heat or cooling). As a matter of fact, it’s over 85 right now, and our ceiling fan is on and the windows are open. I’m perfectly comfortable.
Anyway, there is no real point to this. I guess I’m just curious about how you get greener. Because whether or not you think Global Warming is totally legitimate or if it’s hogwash COUGHit’stotallyrealCOUGHCOUGH…you have to at least feel a little responsibility about not being so…trashy. (Come on, you know what I mean.)
So, what are you doing? What have you been doing? What can I do to make any difference at all?
*The picture above is a sea turtle that got a plastic ring (found on pop tops and milk cartons) around his little body as a baby, and this is how his shell formed when he grew...
**Edited to add - Here is what I currently do: I have the canvas bags for groceries, we separate glass, plastic, and carboard/paper for recycling, stuff we learned as kids like turning off lights and the water faucet, we use tea towels for napkins and have nixed bottled water by using a filter and our own washable water bottle...still looking for more ideas, though. AND I LOVE HEARING THAT YOU ARE ON BOARD! Maybe that will decrease my insane dreams. That or more therapy. ;)

BABY, I’M MOVING ON

Wed, 29 Apr 2009 09:05:14 -0500

By Heather Feeler

I cleaned out the nursery tonight. Sold the crib. Packed away the baby clothes. Looked through the photos of when my boys were born. Swept up all the remnants of baby and brought in something new.

The truth is, I've been on the fence a long time about having another baby. Ever since we brought Tuck home from the hospital, I've wondered if we should do it all again. Jeff only wanted two. I always thought I wanted one, then I had two, and then I started thinking about number three. A girl would be lovely, no doubt, but even another boy sounded fine. I always felt like I had more love, but never enough time or energy.

I then questioned every mother I met. So, how did you know you were done? Did the baby fever ever go away? Do you wish you would have had more kids? No conclusive answers. Just confident women who seemed content with the number of kids they had.

Ironically, it was the pregnant women around me that finally provided the answer. An amazing friend at work is having baby number four. I actually woke up in a cold sweat one night thinking this was me, my life, and realizing I can't deal with that many kids. Another friend recently moved, took a new job and became pregnant. I was so thrilled for her, but not one bit envious at all these new adventures in her life. And then, when doling out advice to another friend about fertile times of the month, I almost had a heart attack when my period failed to show up on time. False alarm, thank goodness, but I fretted enough to know what side of the fence I had landed.

It was time to move on. Instead of a nursery, I now have a room of my own -- an office, a personal sanctuary to write, a rocker to read (instead of nurse a baby) and pictures of those I love all around me. I even dusted off my favorite poetry books and lined them up like proud, little soldiers in my new room. While I love the babies I've been blessed with, I feel confident tonight. Something new is about to begin. For the first time in a long time, I think I'm ready.

WHAT A DIFFERENCE A YEAR MAKES

Fri, 17 Apr 2009 00:00:00 -0500

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

A little less than a year ago, I was living in New York City with my husband of 10 months. I was meeting friends for drinks. I was just starting a friendship that would prove to be one of the best of my life.
A little less than a year ago, I was getting into the best restaurants and getting comped meals by my clients. I was rolling my eyes at these people…in person. I was hailing cabs, and going to shows, and wearing high heels…a lot.
A little less than a year ago, I wouldn’t have gone more than 2 weeks without a mani/pedi, I wouldn’t have (literally) bumped into fewer than 2 people on the way to the grocery store, and I wouldn’t have walked 2 blocks without looking down at the pavement and wishing for a patch of lawn.
We decided a little less than a year ago that we were going to do everything we could to set the wheels in motion to move to Austin. To be closer to family and to start a new chapter. To enjoy some sunshine. To get that patch of lawn.
I couldn’t wait.
Since then, my husband and I have done it. We moved across the country into new roles, into a new community, into a new pace, into new jobs, and into a new life.
Rather unexpectedly, we fell even more in love with each other, and about 2 months ago, we learned that a little less than a year from now, I will take on the role I have wanted since I was 4 years old. The role of mama…
I can’t wait.

DREAM ON

Thu, 2 Apr 2009 09:35:27 -0500

By Heather Feeler

Every spring, I go into a frenzy to get organized. I have this urge to get rid of clutter and re-arrange everything in my world. Give it away or sell, I don't care. I just need a new perspective.

In the midst of all this purging, I came across an old notebook from college and my early married years. The pages had random notes of inspiration, journal entries and even a few poems tucked in between pages. It was a time warp back to a girl I once knew. The poems were, at best, morose, somewhat psychotic and over-the-top dramatic.

The crazy part is that I fancied myself a poet. An undiscovered, eccentric, extremely talented creator of poems. That's me. Apparently, I even saved a bunch in case my poetry gift was discovered posthumous. But tonight, when I'm reading those poems, a moment of truth flickers in my mind. I only imagined myself a poet. These poems will never take flight, I can almost guarantee you.

It's hard to let go of what you've dreamed yourself to be. When I think of myself, it's not a vision of dirty laundry, screaming kids and soccer practice. It's sitting in a coffee shop, black coffee in hand, cigarette burning and poetic words laying themselves down in perfect form on the page. I wear my beret, reciting my poems with an accent and people love them. People love me. They want to take home these words I've written and place them somewhere important. I want that for them, too.

I then start to think of all the people I've sent these poems. I was so full of myself that I put them on Christmas cards, gave them as birthday gifts and made friends read each line while I stood there waiting for their accolades. I even mailed a poem to my sister-in-law in the midst of her long, lonely semester in the Philippines. I thought it would provide comfort. I realize now it may not have been comforting, but extremely funny. She said she lost the poem before she made it back home. Coincidence? I'm wondering.

When a dream is ash, I guess you just keep moving on. It also helps to be honest when you were just too proud, too confident, too full of yourself. We've all been there. I'm sure I'll even step through that door again like when I realize I might not be a professional blogger. It takes me awhile, but I'm learning.

THE MRS. MISSES

Mon, 9 Feb 2009 11:58:36 -0600

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

I have been working. A lot.
Aaaaaaand my husband has been working. More than I.
The last few weeks have served as a lesson on how to adjust, (to a new home, new city, new jobs, and a new lifestyle) and honestly, I don’t think I am as quick of a study as I usually tout myself to be.

I came home yesterday and passed out on the couch while my sweetie was massaging my aching feet.

What’s worse, tomorrow is his birthday, and I have...what? Plans to make a cake? A dinner date idea? The wrench in the works: he has a late class on the night of his birthday, so I don’t exactly know when this mini fete will take place.

So, I don’t know. I am feeling a little lower than the domestic goddess status to which I aspire. And I do take pride in that...being available, mentally, creatively, emotionally, and physically to my husband. Lately, though, I zone out when he’s talking and just want to close my eyes, not because I’m not interested in what he’s saying, but rather, the fact that I have yet to master this physical exhaustion.

Seriously. Even my skin is tired. And that’s no good...not for him. Not for me. Not for us.

How do y’all do it? Especially those of you with kids? How do you balance work and life and children...and still feel energized enough to be a great wife/girlfriend/partner?

AND SO IT BEGINS

Wed, 28 Jan 2009 09:51:11 -0600

By Heather Feeler

Technology hates me. Okay, not true. I'm the one that loathes technology. I guess I'm never sure if it's worth learning because, quite frankly, it will be gone tomorrow. I don't text. I don't Facebook. I don't even Twitter. I hear about all these wonderful tools from friends who have learned to stay e-connected. I still write them letters because I feel bad.

If I'm missed on the world wide web, no one has mentioned it. I have kind friends, I know. After all this time, I've decided to start a mini blog and a friend even sent me a link on how to get started. I'm not even sure what will happen when I hit "publish post." And I guess if blogs are out by the time I figure it all out, I'll just move on. It's the writing that matters most.

I asked my four-year-old what I should title my blog. I was at a loss on how to put an umbrella on all these ideas I might be generating on my 10-year-old computer. He said, "battery brains." What?!? "Well, I got no ideas right now because my brains are out of batteries."

Oh, well, that makes sense.

Moms are the same way, I think. We organize the entire world and we are often scattered. When we finally use the last minute of our day to do something for ourselves, we're often at a loss. Words fail us. Thoughts fall away. Our brains are simply out of batteries.

I can't speak for every mother, but I miss that spark. I miss it so much that I feel sadness when I think of its going. So, I'm recharging, folks. I'm re-emerging. I'm sending something out that may have no return except the satisfaction of knowing it's mine. I own it. I keep it safe. I strike the match.

DEAR UNIVERSE

Thu, 22 Jan 2009 10:14:07 -0600

By Andrea J. Shipman

Dear Universe,  Hi! Just a little note to say thanks for all the good stuff you've sent to me lately - the good husband, the decent job (with benefits!), the layoff dodge, Barry O and the Lucky Brand sale. All of it. I love it. THANK YOU!  Howevs, one small thing to discuss. All that baby stuff? You know the stroller client we are pitching, the overwhelming baby-centric storylines in my favorite shows, my friends' newborns and their pregnancies? If those could...um stop. Or not become so prominent that would be great.  No, no - don't get my wrong. I love it when my friends have gorgeous babies and good pregnancies! Please continue all the goodness there. They are happy and that's lovely.  It's just... I would prefer to not be reminded constantly of the looming biological clock. And really, you're super not-so-secret agents are totally doing their jobs. Namely in the form of my family or my in-laws. They rock their arms in my direction, do the whole wink-wink nudge-nudge thing, using cute words like bambinos (always plural). That I can handle and truthfully, expect. I am fully aware that after a year of marriage the questions come. Unless you're my uncle who gets drunk and slurs into the camera at your wedding, "Stop all that talking and go upstairs and make babies." But I digress...  Truth is Universe and Fates, I now kinda want a baby then I start making plans - Greece, beach getaways, quick romantic weekend trips, booze. I can't DO THAT with a baby. And I like those things! A lot.  So stop making babies cute. Um, newborns should NEVER be cute. They are to be cone-headed and look like little rats. Babies should be yelling and crying and drooling. I should look at them with slight disdain and exasperation, not with cooing joy and yearning.  You're awesome. A*

LEAVING ON A MIDNIGHT TRAIN TO?

Mon, 12 Jan 2009 09:29:18 -0600

By Michelle Gutman

In all my review and more review of my romantic pursuits in New York, I've come to believe that the universe has sent me very weak and confused men as a good-old-fashioned sign. I am ready to accept the obvious message, always flashing more boldly than any Broadway billboard, calling me to look inward to develop my potential as an independent woman, and to let that potential take me to wherever that is for me.

It's almost like I've been presented with men so sordidly inverse to me spiritually and morally, like proverbial sirens demanding that I invest in the strength and talent that is already within me, spinning like a quiet yet inevitable tornado. And in the sirens' echoes there is a relentless clamor, nagging and egging-on, insisting that I kick relationships completely to the wayside, like a superfluous pebble.

I finally feel liberated by the idea of an existence built by me, and only me, on my very own terms, weighing it against no one's fickle perceptions of me or of relationships, or whatever other intangible circumstances I never have the opportunity to learn about with the men who radically appear and disappear before me like magic rabbits. I am the magician now.

TODAY

Thu, 8 Jan 2009 09:07:09 -0600

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

Recently, I have been noticing moments in my everyday life when I am doubting myself. Not my abilities, but my self. I am trying to make some changes to encourage my well-being so that I can project my own little light and contribute more to the lives of those I love. Sometimes, though, I feel like by trying to improve myself, I come across as...I don’t know. Hokey. Corny. Righteous.

I start to rethink my decisions, my words, even my personality. But, today, I am getting rid of that behavior. Really. That’s useless. Because it’s none of my business what other people think of me. My opinion is the only one that matters.

I hope that today you honor yourself. Your self. That you highlight all the characteristics that make you the unique soul that you are. That you look at the quirks you may feel insecure about at times as the real stuff that makes you beautifully, and imperfectly...perfect.

JOY!

Wed, 24 Dec 2008 20:47:14 -0600

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

Merry Christmas, Internet! Mama is here, in our new home with us tonight, and just as, I am sure, tradition calls for in most homes, I am busy drinking egg nog and posting a little cheer on the web, as I watch her draw me some pictures (what else do you do when your daughter tosses you her sketchbook and demands, “Make me some art, woman!” as she gestures to the massive and, as yet, unfilled wall space in her new apartment? I tell you what. You make with the colored pencils.).

I can’t get off the couch. Mainly because every time I move, my husband calls in from the other room, “Where are you going?! Don’t come in here!!” Hmmm...I hear a lot of paper rustling in there, too. I wonder if he’s working on a top secret mission and can’t re-fold the map marking the rendezvous point. Anyway. I’m fine here. Couch. Nog. Good.

Wishing y’all the happiest of holidays. I hope you all eat a lot of full-fat goodies, hug a lot of friends and family members, and of course, get your home decorated for free by artsy, maternal types...just like, I’m sure Bing sang about with Rosemary.

TA. DA.

Fri, 19 Dec 2008 08:37:21 -0600

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

I am so smug right now. People, the move went really well. REALLY well. And I was skeptical, because driving 2000 miles...that’s lot of room for hiccoughs. Our biggest problem? Moving to an apartment that is double the size of our NYC dwelling, we needed some more furniture, you know, to sit on.

And, hey! Did you know that the economy is kind of in the pooper? You didn’t? You haven’t seen the 18 frillion talking heads blabbering on about the economy the economy theeconommmmmmmerghhhhh...??? Ugh. Yah, about that. During Christmas. Suffice it to say, I’m not exactly ordering Smithers to bringthecar’round so I can trot my well-clad ass to Neiman Marcus, yippy purse dog in tow, to furnish the new flat, dahling. We’re all “tightening our belts” and “cutting back” and “trimming the fat.” However, I prefer to think of myself as super enviro-forward 1) so I can fit in to this new Keep Austin Weird culture and 2) it sounds better than “scavenger-y.”

So, my dad had some...um...older furniture that he did not use in his home, at which I jumped and said, “I will take that!” while my husband gazed at me with a look that, if given a voice, would have said, “Really? This is our new style? We lived in Manhattan for almost 10 years and this is the aesthetic you think fits us?”

But, no! I did not listen to the imaginary questions from his raised eyebrow! I convinced myself that now was the time when I must channel all the hours of WISDOM I ingested while watching home design show after home design show, and make lemons into friggin’ lemonade!

BEHOLD!

Before:

After:

And I have TWO of those chairs! I furthered my GREEN ENVIRO-FORWARDism by recycling the fabric from my old West Elm Duvet cover as the fabric for the chairs. (How very Scarlet O’Hara a/o Fraulein Maria of me.) Y’all. I’m proud. Off to go design the shit out of something else.

A SIMPLE PRAYER

Mon, 15 Dec 2008 07:53:30 -0600

By Heather Feeler

Cooper, my four-year-old, is learning to say the prayer before each meal. He relishes this opportunity to be center stage and, of course, get praises for doing a great job. Unfortunately, you never know what will come out of his mouth while praying. In mixed company this can be very dangerous.

On Sunday, he says, "Dear Heavenly Father, thank you for this food; thank you that we could get a dog for Christmas (the dog has already arrived and awaits scraps under the table); and thank you that you gave me a baby, Tuck, and that you gave me a mommy and daddy; thank you also for me, Cooper. Amen."

I was touched. Many in the world don't have food, or a dog, or a much-wanted baby, or a mommy and a daddy to love them. Some don't even love themselves.

My four-year-old has figured out what it's taken me 30 years to truly accept. The Lord loves us all, crazy journey and all. Be thankful for this day.

IN 6 DAYS

Sun, 30 Nov 2008 14:13:12 -0600

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

In 6 days, if all goes as planned, my husband and I will be finishing a 3-day excursion across the country, from New York City to Austin.

And the best part is, this isn’t a visit. We’re moving there. Moving back.

A few years ago, before my now-husband and I got engaged, I told him that unless he thought he could consider moving to Austin one day with me, we should probably cut bait. That’s how much I wanted to go then. That’s why we’re heading there Thursday morning.

I cannot tell you how excited I am to be closer to my family. I cannot tell you because, yes, it is an immeasurable amount, but mainly because my brain is fried. I am trying to convince my body it is not getting sick, while at the same time, trying to encourage my ass to get up off this couch, that my “little break” is over, and I need to get back to packing.

What I can tell you, is that while wrapping up glassware and digging through mementos, it occurred to me how silly I had been, bargaining with my then-boyfriend/later-fiance/now-husband about one day, taking me home.

This little New York City apartment has been home for quite a while. I have been at home here because he has been here with me. And I’ll be home next Sunday morning in Austin for the very same reason.

WOMEN WEIGH IN

Wed, 5 Nov 2008 12:33:34 -0600

By The Contributors of Ultimish.com

From Allison Rae Carlsen:

Witness to Hope

I woke up on the morning of November 4, 2008 feeling hopeful. I saluted the Statue of Liberty with camera raised as she floated past me & my family as we rode the Staten Island Ferry. We smiled and made peace signs in front of the Hope Garden, and stood somberly reading the plaquard describing the eternal flame. We took pictures of buildings whose windows were eyes looking down at the hole left in the earth on 9/11 and held signs calling out for change.

I watched 100 hundred friends –or more! - donate their Facebook status to change. I read a constant, endless stream of discussions, exclamations, and declarations about voting and hoping and believing!

I saw people high-five in the streets. I got free coffee and free ice cream. I saw people smile at each other. IN NEW YORK.

Through tears, I saw the signs flash from “Vote ‘08” to “Barack Obama – President Elect” in Times Square. I heard a city – a nation – a world cheer in unison, “yes we can!” I stood in the middle of Times Square – in the middle of it all - and watched as history was made and Barack Obama was declared our next President.

I woke up on Election day feeling hopeful…and I fell asleep that night feeling even MORE. I am proud to say that on that day, finally, I was a witness to change. A witness to history. A witness to hope. You betta’ TESTIFY!!!

From Julie Sutton-McGurk:

I don’t have children yet, but if I am blessed with them in the future, I hope to be able to influence the people they become by setting a good example.
I want to show them that principles are easy to say you have, but mean nothing unless you live by them in times when they are put to the test.
I want to show them that believing that being a good person will bring good things to them does not make them silly, but enlightened.
I want to show them that offering someone a positive possibility is much more empowering than trying to scare someone by telling them what negative things could happen if they don’t agree with you.
I want to show them that you can’t judge a book by it’s cover, and that it’s never conscionable, intelligent, or fair to determine someone’s abilities or character by the way they look.
I want to show them that our world is a beautiful place, and we should do everything we can to protect it.
I want to show them that kindness begets kindness, acts of compassion lead to increased joy, and they will always get more by giving to others.
I want to show them that love is a verb, and that if they find a partner who will actively love them, and if they will do so in return, that they are blessed to have found someone, no matter if they are different in race or religion or of the same gender.
I want to show them that it is just as important to fight for the rights of those who don’t agree with you as for your own, and that promoting the advancement of one group of people advances us all.
I want to show them that it is more satisfying to act gracefully when it would be easier to be mean.
I want to show them that any experience is available to them, and that any dream they have is theirs if they are willing to work for it.
I want to show them that change only happens when civilized people with varied points of view, varied backgrounds, and varied ideas decide to compromise and collaborate.
I want to show them that anything is possible in the country we live in, that we are all more alike than we are diverse, that their voice matters, and that humankind is generally good.
I want to show them all of these things, but I am so happy that I can show them the footage of November 4, 2008, when The United States of America elected President Barack Obama, and when I do, I’ll be proud that my fellow citizens and my new President, set the same example.
If you want to view paradise
Simply look around and view it.
Anything you want to, do it.
Want to change the world?
There's nothing to it.

From Erin Fitzgerald:

Over the past week Hope has moved into my life and it seems to have taken permanent residence for the forseeable future. Keep in mind this is not a bad thing, just something I've noticed.

I see hope almost every day, and it takes many faces. It may be as insignificant as a move to a new apartment or to a new city even, where a new career waits or opportunities to finish something started long ago are limitless. This past weekend I watched as more than 38,000 people ran across a city in one afternoon. They ran for a variety of reasons, because that's what they do, or in memory or honor of another. Maybe they ran because they wanted to get in shape or because the prize at the finish was a really sweet sweatshirt; or because they wanted to be skinny. I don't think one of those people didn't say "I hope I finish."

I've learned a lot in the past few days, about New Yorkers and the people who visit here. People who cheer for themselves and for their friends and for strangers. I thought for a while that it was only in an arena of sport that could inspire people to support others in such an open and selfless way, but after watching the Election coverage last night, it really hit home that hope unites us all. And that people are a lot more amazing than I had ever given them credit for.

Today, I am proud. Proud of America. Proud of the people who live here. Proud of the people who learn from mistakes and take action to be proactive in their fate. I have great admiration for my peers and today I am excited for our future and for our 44th President, Barack Obama.

From Andrea J. Shipman:

History

Historically, the black vote wasn’t counted.
Historically, black people weren’t counted.
Historically, women’s votes meant nothing.
Historically, the minority Hispanic vote went to the Republican Party.
Historically, young people were apathetic.
Historically, North Carolina stayed solidly red.

Welcome to a new era, ladies and gents. Because all of the above is in the past, today marks a new time. An uphill conversation about war, the economy and this country starts in January. Nothing will be easy these next 4 years but today? Today is easy.

It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life. And I’m feeling good.

From Leticia Acosta:

This native Texan, and political junkie, couldn’t help but shed a couple of tears last night after watching President-Elect Obama’s speech. Living in a red state where every statewide office is held by a Republican, I knew my vote for Obama would not have as much of an impact as a vote in Ohio or Florida. Despite this, I can say I voted in the most historic election our country has ever conducted. As I dressed my sour month old daughter for daycare this morning, I told her that she was born the year the United States elected its first African American president. I told her that one day she could become president too, although I hope we don’t have to wait over 35 years to elect a woman. Not that race or one’s gender should be a factor in deciding who to vote for, but knowing that a candidate of any race, gender, or religion could be a viable candidate to lead our country. The sheer possibility warmed my heart, and made me proud to be an American.

More to Come!

How to YOU feel about the election results? Weigh in in the Comments Section!

VOTE!

Tue, 4 Nov 2008 17:47:50 -0600

By Julie Sutton-McGurk

Happy Election Day, Everyone.

I hope you got as high as I did after voting!

We’ll be watching the coverage tonight while enjoying some homemade Tex-Mex. That’s right...HOME. MADE. By my husband. Because as far as marriages go, I am positive I voted for the right guy.